The 175th Hunger Games: A Ballad Of Death
by ASimpleMind94
Summary: SYOT OPEN. 'Our forefather's worked to create the Capitol we know and love, and we will respect their choice to send in Capitol raised tributes. We are not ungrateful; we are not savage beasts who shirk courtesy: We will follow through with what they want. As a thank you for the path they have paved for us to walk, as a declaration that we are the deserving leaders of Panem.'
1. Whispers of Rebellion

_**Happy Hunger Games :)**_

_**Mockingjay is released later this month and inspired me to re-read the Hunger Games trilogy as well as so many wonderful SYOT's.**_

_**So, alas I have jumped on the metaphorical bandwagon and decided to do a SYOT alongside my other works. **_

_**This is a tad long for an author's note so I'll get right onto it. This is AU, the rebellion never happened; plus we are heading towards a Quarter Quell and the story will be updated once or twice a week. **_

_**But for now, let the 175**__**th**__** Hunger Games begin.**_

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><p><strong>Serpentia Snow, President of Panem.<strong>

"Are you sure that this information is accurate, Mr Fleurington? If any incongruities are found in you little story, the consequence would not be pretty. Not pretty at all, for you or your beautiful family. Am I clear?" The horrific purple frizz of Georgio Fleurington's hair is cemented to his ivy green forehead by the sweat pouring profusely from every pore. I can't help but allow my cosmetically enhanced lips to curve into a sadistic smile, to bask in the effect I have on these lowly creatures; one perfectly executed glare from yours truly is enough to send anyone spiralling into a nervous breakdown.

A quality which has always assisted my reign over my Panem, with an iron fist for the past six years. To rule my Garden of Eden without question, without any threat of rebellion. But it seems this position has changed, if this pitiful creature's word is to be believed; his fear is palpable, maybe he could hear the barely concealed rage in my voice or maybe he is observant enough to have noticed the simmering red glint in my eyes.

Unacceptable, this will not come to fruition; I have been the merciful leader, publically at least and I have eliminated any threats that have reared their heads before they themselves realise they are even a potential threat. Impossible, I have had more people slaughtered than most men will have hot meals in a lifetime to prevent anything of this nature happening; it has been attempted in the past and never come to realisation. But this is different, this could work and I cannot allow it. I will not allow it.

"Y-yes milady, t-there have been w-whispers… clandestine m-meetings, pl-plans are being made." I'm pulled from my musings when my 'informant' seems to have regained some semblance of control of his vocal chords. His eyes darting around the room; futile, but he has nothing to worry about. Yet. And even if he did, he wouldn't have a chance to escape my snake pit.

"And how would you of heard of such things Mr Fleurington? Obviously you would have names, and more details of these 'plans'. So elaborate." I can't help the thrill of pleasure which pulses through my body as he splutters, overwhelmed by his potentially imminent death; I twirl my ebony hair around my ice white finger, taking a moment to observe how my skin glitters with the millions of tiny diamonds embedded into my skin.

I smirk as I hear a choked sob, before fixing him with a piercing glare and leaning forward to rest my elbows against my mahogany desk; my patience with his blubbering is beginning to wane. Judging by his wide eyed stare, I am sure that he is aware of this; like prey caught in the sights of a predator he is frozen.

"I-I don-n't know. W-whispers in the Gentle m-man clubs-s. Q-quell, t-they plan to e-exploit the quell. T-they're wore masks, m-milady. I w-wasn't meant to b-be there, m-my wife would k-kill me." I hold my hand up, unconcerned by whatever else the man has to say. He falls instantly silent, knowing that now is not the time to test me with his pointless excuses. Why would I care if his wife castrated him for hiding in the whore houses like some sewer rat? And why would I feel threatened by men in masks who are so desperate for affection they must buy it? Like a river in a draught, Mr Fleurington has served his purpose and is now empty of anything of any importance.

And things without purpose are disposable, like anything which threatens my reign. My mother, before her 'untimely' death, would always express the importance of getting rid of things which are no longer of use to us; to prevent clutter and confusion. The same applies on the chess board of politics; any extraneous variables need to be eliminated to ensure that the players remain focused. And a great man once said, 100% focus requires 100% sacrifice.

"Thank you, Mr Fleurington. Your statement has been so illuminating, and I ensure you that this little situation will be dealt with; now would you like a cup of tea?" I almost laugh when I hear his breath of relief, reaching for my tablet I dial through a code which will ensure an Avox will bring my own special brew for my visitor.

Seconds later an Avox breezes through the door with a cup and saucer filled with a violet liquid that secretes a sweet aroma. Like a man in a desert, Fleurington knocks back the fragrant syrup; much more at ease now he believes to have escaped my displeasure. Foolish, the effect is instantaneous; he begins to choke, his eyes look at me and I just smile as the man drowns in his own sickening bodily fluids.

This is why men are unfit to lead, they are blind: Unable to see that however unthreatening something may seem, it could be fatal. Much like me, as they say every rose has its thorns and Mr Fleurington has just personally sampled what happens when you're pricked by my particular brand of thorn. But I need to remain focussed and that requires sacrifice and unfortunately for Georgio, he was a necessary sacrifice. Once the man who was once Gerogio Fleurington has breathed his last breath, I click my fingers. The Avox, whose eyes have been firmly fixed on the floor, looks up from my blood red carpet; diligently waiting for its orders.

"Dispose of this. Send flowers to his wife, detailing how he died in an unfortunate accident and arrange for a healthy compensation cheque to be given and then send me Horatio Fiddlesworth; he and I need to have a little chat." The Avox nods his head once to show he understand his orders, so efficient; and leaves the room as silently as he had entered. I turn in my chair and survey the Capitol skyline: Undisturbed, flawless and mine.

Eternal and never changing, much how I had anticipated the peace would be in Panem beneath my rule but it seems that some people are keen to destroy the peace and the stability throughout Panem. But I am more than ready to exterminate these blasphemous attempts to ravish the status quo, and the first step is to have a little 'meeting' with my Head Gamemaker.

"Happy Hunger Games Panem, this will be a year to remember. A quell to never be forgotten, and as always: The odds are in my favour."

I laugh mirthlessly at my little declaration, dialling through the code which would ensure a glass of the finest cognac would be brought for me and my imminent guest when I hear a knock at the door. So strange how quickly people arrive when they're summoned to my snake pit.

"Come in Mr Fiddlesworth, we have a lot to talk about."

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><p><strong>And so here it is a prologue of sorts. I'd love to hear your thoughts and any suggestions :)<strong>

**If you'd like the tribute form, leave a review. Reserve a spot and I'll PM you the form because it is pretty detailed (It is a Quell after all)**

**I'm almost finished with the next chapter too.**

**-Ornella xox**


	2. The Reading of the Card

_**Well, the first chapter of this story has received an amazing response and I have to thank not only all those people who've reviewed and submitted tributes/followed but everyone who has read the story too.**_

_**There are still some slots available for tributes, so drop me a line :) **_

_**Anyway, on with the story and once again… We're heading into the Snake Pit again, and the Quell shall be announced. I'm in a big writing mood at the moment, and I'm the kind of gal who writes LOOONG stories; after this there will be one more chapter before the Reapings begin. So a question:**_

_**Do you want to see all the Reapings? Or just a few?**_

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><p><strong>Serpentia Snow, President of Panem.<strong>

"Tia, however much I would like to help; it's impossible. Well unheard of but I think messing with the Quell could cause more trouble than it's worth. I know you've always been one for a spectacle but are you really trying to incite a riot?" I take a long swig of my cognac, savouring the warmth that blossoms through my chest. Very few people could be as blunt with myself as Horatio, I almost respect his opinion but I am a woman who knows what she wants and not even someone I consider a 'friend' can derail this particular train of thought.

"I do not care if it causes a riot, anyone who would dare say anything would be eliminated. It is as simple as that Horatio. I will not allow whispers of rebellion to continue without retaliation, you know me; I don't let things slide. I am quite literally a snake in the grass, poised to strike; and now is the time to strike out." I have never been anything but benevolent towards the Capitol, tolerating their ludicrous fixation with vanity and below-par intelligence. And to hear that they wish to 'dethrone' me and lay waste to the Panem that I have helped shape, ungrateful cretins. They should've learned to never have bitten the hand that has so graciously fed them.

"Don't be rash, letting your temper control you will lead you into making sloppy decisions; it would be easier to lay low, weed out the perpetrators and take them out without anyone knowing any different." Although his suggestion is logical, it lacks a distinct edge; it is far too subtle for my liking. Every decision I make is pre-meditated to have maximum impact, to make an example so that people can learn to not make the same mistake: That is logic, something dynamic will have a far more durational effect than a few assassinations in the dead of night.

"I am never rash Horatio, and you would do well to remember that. I need to make these imbeciles understand that if they want to lash out at me, then I will retaliate by lashing out at them, their friends, their families. Anything to which they're associated with will be desecrated; they will become the public enemy. Not the government." I would tell Horatio more of the scheme beginning to form in the recesses of my mind, but I am not foolish enough to trust him implicitly.

A real snake would never put all their eggs in one basket, and neither would I; but I can tell by how his perfectly manicured, periwinkle eyebrows raise that I've got him curious. And he has the nerve to call me rash, if only he knew that however lenient I may be with how he addresses me; that he is still the puppet whose strings I pull. Would I be rash then? Of course not, I may respect his opinion but I know that I am a master manipulator; and our cordial relationship may spare him execution for sometimes being loose tongued, but it does not make him exempt from being manipulated for my benefit.

"And how exactly do you intend to do that Tia? What you're proposing would hardly endear the Capitol to whatever cause it is you're keeping secret for now; don't alienate your people, it's been many a leaders downfall." Yes, imbecilic male leaders who seem incapable of using their brains when it comes to making decisions; much like Horatio himself who is starting to test my patience. I force a smile though, he still has his uses but I am not one who will tolerate sitting around and trying to persuade him to see things from my perspective.

"That is enough. I may respect you Horatio, but I will not have you constantly trying to question my decisions. I am president, and I have given you orders. Are you incapable of that? Because I would hate to have to take matters into my own hands; there's always so much collateral damage." Horatio is shocked at my barely veiled threat; but I am not renowned for my patience and I will not allow anyone to become an obstacle. In fact I would say he is pretty angry considering his golden skin takes on a bronzeish hue around his cheeks; thankfully he is rational enough to not act on said anger. I would be put out with having to be rid of a friend for such a mundane reason, plus it is always tedious to find a new Head Gamemaker.

"I understand that. The difficulty isn't getting access to the box, but rather getting it to you; I could access it if I believe the Quell would have a direct impact on the arena." Oh and now we're making progress. I won't point out the fact that he deemed my plot 'impossible' until I threatened him; but his cowardice will help, he knows the game: He has just pointed out how valuable of an asset he could be. I nod my head, pouring him another glass of brandy; he deserves it for getting himself out of a tight situation, how very snakelike.

"Now that we've settled that problem, I trust you to make the exchange; we are sending Capitol children into the arena. I will pretend to be devastated, but rules are rules after all and the games must go on. As for what happens next, you'll become privy to that information if you manage to pull the Quell change off. Oh, and by the way if when it comes to me reading the Quell and it isn't exactly what I expect; I will have you watch as I personally slaughter your whole family and leave you to starve trapped in a room with their corpses."

Horatio's eyes widen, but he nods his understanding. His fury is obvious as his jaw twitches, but he understands that compliance is a lot easier than trying to oppose me; he'd be dead before he laid a finger on me. I didn't want to have to resort to threats, but I will do whatever is necessary to ensure this plan goes smoothly. He stands up, I raise my eyebrows: He shall not leave until I dismiss him, before I open my mouth though he holds his hands up in surrender.

"It's almost time for the changeover in the guards; it'll be easier to get access to the box and make the necessary changes. I just hope this works, because if it doesn't: Panem as we know it could cease to exist." I smile, oh when the minions use their initiative it is so convenient. I smile, Horatio may have his doubts but he's still willing to do what has to be done; even if his doubts are unfounded.

"Well done Horatio, have faith in the fact I know exactly what I am doing. In fact, I also have a few ideas to suggest in regards to mutations and the arena; but that is for another time. Are you sure the switch will be made by then? Because I do not want to have to go through the process of employing a new Head Gamemaker if you fail." I can't help but grin as Horatio's Adam's apple bobs as he gulps; my death threat fresh in his mind, the perfect motivation. Sometimes I surprise myself with how efficient I can be in the art of manipulation.

"You can be sure that everything will be as you wish, Serpentia. And any suggestions you have will be greatly appreciated, we have no greater desire than to see our President taking an active role in the games." I would be concerned about his sarcasm, but if he fails in his task; he'll be dead. But if he thinks he could ever outwit me, he is seriously deluded.

"Then leave, and I have always been taught that if you can't trust anyone to do the job properly; do it yourself, hence my concern with this year's games. And need I remind you to think before you speak, there is always need of more Avoxes here in the Capitol." Horatio nods his head and leaves quickly; I note that he slams the door with more force than necessary. Men and their tempers, but the thing is they're also predictable. He'll do as he's told, but he'll let testosterone overall his good sense and start trying to help with this 'rebellion'; hence the tail I put on the man as soon as Georgio Fleurington told me of this potential uprising. In his haste to try and get back to me, he'll be leading me to the rebellion leaders and signing his own death warrant at the same time.

As I said, everything that I do is pre-meditated for maximum effect.

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><p>Tatiana, my personal stylist is fluttering around like a headless chicken; muttering to herself about colour pallets and cosmetics while she drags a brush across my skin. To an untrained eye she radiates confidence, but to someone more attuned to observing the human species; you notice things like the way her hand quivers as she applies another layer of eyeliner, or the way she chews her lip as she delicately traces the outline of my lips with a rouge lip liner.<p>

Personally I don't see her need to be nervous, but I never say anything as I enjoy the fact my very presence turns the seemingly buoyant girl into a quivering wreck. She may be a typical Capitolite with her fire red hair, dyed black skin and amber eyes; but she is the Michelangelo of the makeup world; she transforms my face into a work of fine art. And that is why I can tolerate the woman with obscenely large breasts and a barely existent waist; she is nothing short of a magician with her cosmetics case and however self-depreciating it sounds: I do need it.

I haven't the time to obsess over vanity; I chose books over looks, learning the art of manipulation and politics over how to apply makeup with perfect precision. Spending more time ensuring I was educated and able to lead the noble nation of Panem rather than undergoing surgery after surgery to ensure I was the physical embodiment of what many believe to be perfection. Not that I haven't had a bit of work done. But on days like today, I need to be nothing less than flawlessly beautiful. And it is little Tati who is given that job.

"You do realise that today Tatiana, I have to look better than ever before. The reading of the Quell is one of the most important things I will do in my reign as president; if I look anything less than perfect, it would look bad on the Capitol. Look bad on you, am I clear?" I grin as Tatiana's eyes widen unnaturally and she begins to flutter around at a greater speed; curtseying and muttering reassurances so quickly that I can't catch a word. However inappropriate it may be, her fear almost arouses me; filling me euphoria so more potent than any drug available in Panem.

I allow her to work in silence, eyes closed as I fantasize about the reaction of the crowd gathered outside my mansion for the reading of the card. After a few minutes I notice the absence of the gentle caress of Tati's various brushes; I open my eyes to find my stylist staring at me with such intensity, lower lip caught between her teeth. She finally lets out a sigh of relief, handing me a mirror: My full lips have been painted a shining scarlet, reminiscent of freshly spilled blood; they look sensuous. My eyes framed with thick black lashes, thick eyeliner and a grey eye shadow; the reddish tinge to my irises becoming more prominent. My skin which already sparkles thanks to the miniscule diamonds which lurk beneath my skin, but Tati has added additional highlights to my cheek and orbital bones and my black hair is swept into an elegant bun at the side of my head. It is perfect: Professional, beautiful and lethal. Tati must catch my smile as she claps her hands together with childlike enthusiasm.

"You look phenomenal Lady President, no one will be able to take their eyes off of you. You look striking, and amazing. I wish I could be as beautiful as you." I nod along with her never-ending stream of chatter, because she is right; I am flawless. And nobody will be able to take their eyes off of me tonight, especially after they hear about the Quell; I chuckle to myself which cause Tati to look at me curiously. One glare from me sends her stare straight back to the floor, but I suppose she should be congratulated.

"You have excelled yourself Tatiana, and for this you will be rewarded greatly. But for now you're dismissed, tomorrow we'll discuss your little reward." Tati almost collapses as I praise her preening, and staring at me with a sense of adoration; how much simpler it would be if all the Capitolites were like Tati at times. I'd never have to deal with uprisings, only the reverent glares; which is something I could get used to. She leaves quickly after spluttering out a million different ways of thanking me for my graciousness and brilliance, and so many other positives; she isn't only a good makeup artist, but great for ones ego.

Once she's gone, I get dressed; a flawlessly tailored skirt suit, black with red floral detailing. I look ready, I am ready for this; the Capitol however I am not so sure. I hear a knock at my door asking if I'm ready since the crowds have gathered. I could laugh, but right now I need to be the unflappable president. The real question is whether the Capitol and the conspirators who hide amongst the crowd are ready for the chain of events I'm about to cause; Fiddlesworth told me that my actions would change Panem forever, he was right. I'll be securing my already taut hold over the nation; I'll be responsible for the revolution that ensures Serpentia Snow will be remembered as the greatest president the great Panem has ever seen.

"I'm ready."

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><p>Standing at the podium I look out at the ocean of people gathered; people here to hear of the tortures that the districts shall face in the 175th Hunger Games. Oh how ironic, how they thirst to hear about the torment of the districts when in fact it is the Capitol itself who will face the horrors forming in my very own mind. Amongst the congregation to my left I spot Horatio, he nods his head discretely; well-done Horatio, but if you're deceiving me Horatio; I have snipers trained on your wife and your children. I smile out toward the crowd, the Hunger Games are a celebration after all and they roar in response; the sound so savage and primal. I can't help but wonder if the façade of 'culture' we Capitolites pride ourselves on will deteriorate when 24 untrained and un-expecting tributes are thrown into the arena, will they become the very animals they declare the districts to be?<p>

"Welcome, to the reading of the card for the 175th Hunger Games. The seventh Quarter Quell, but before that Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour." Another explosion of applause from the crowd, if they only knew that for once in Panem's history the odds weren't in their favour; I doubt they'd be so jubilant. I smile knowing that every person in Panem have their eyes on me; the Capitol with reverence, awaiting to hear how they'll be entertained this year and then the districts are dreading what torture we have in store for them. I haven't been conventional in my leading of Panem, and everyone is about to see that I can become even more controversial.

"The card if you please." My heartbeat is racing, my blood singing in my veins; everything is going perfectly. Thanks to years of controlling my emotions, I ensure my face remains cold and indifferent; the young boy with the blonde hair and cerulean eyes hands me the envelope. The very envelope which will send Panem into chaos, chaos carefully constructed by yours truly; for example, in preparation for now I've drafted in 200 peacekeepers that are spread throughout the crowd; disguised as civilians. Listening out for anything that could lead me onto the trail of those who plot against me, to perform damage control if anyone in the crowd is foolish enough to try anything 'unfavourable' in my eyes, or just plain stupid.

I grasp the envelope, savouring the delicate texture of the thick parchment. Everything is so silent; you could hear a pin drop into the ocean. I keep my gaze fixed on the envelope, ensuring no one can read my expression. Those in the crowd are leaning forward like vultures circling a carcass, I slide the card from the envelope; the audience gasp in perfect synchronization. The card feels heavy in my hands, as heavy as the consequences it bears: I clear my throat, eliciting groans from the Capitolites. I'm sure if they knew what the card said they'd prefer me to be clearing my throat for the next ten years, but I'm never one to disappoint an impatient crowd.

"As a reminder to the Capitol, that sometimes the threat lies in our very walls. The tributes for the 175th Hunger Games will be reaped from the Capitol itself." People begin to cheer, deluding themselves into thinking that I had said something else but like a tidal wave understanding begins to set in; my face remains as neutral as ever but inside there is a delight flourishing at the shock and horror painted on their faces. For one second everything freezes, and then pandemonium reigns; cheers replaced by screams and shrieks of fury. My bodyguards appear instantly at my side, directing me back to the safety of my mansion; as soon as I escape from the cameras my face splits into a smile. Oh Capitol, I've told you more than once to never bite the hand that feeds you; because now you're all paying the price. Now is the time for the real games to begin, and as the doors close behind me I hear the first gunshot fired. Everything is going exactly as I predicted.

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><p><em><strong>Capitol Today:<strong>_

"_Hello Capitol, this is Cherrie Waddlesworth for Capitol Today and I am here just after the reading of the card. When it was revealed for the first time in the history of the Hunger Games, it would the Capitol submitting tributes to enter the arena; we've had a lot of Keeks from our viewing audience as to what they think. Some people are horrified, clueless as to why our forefathers are punishing the Capitol; others are sure that this is an elaborate joke and we'll find out the true nature of the Quell in due course and then some of us are excited for these games. The Capitol are superior to the districts in every way, why would the Hunger Games be any different? _

_But one thing is for sure, these will be the most dramatic and original Hunger Games to date and you can be sure that I will be here, reporting to you every step of the way of the games that will go down in history. Tomorrow night we will be interviewing Head Gamemaker, Horatio Fiddlesworth, on how this shocking revelation will impact the games and any changes that will be made to the schedule. We also hope to report a statement from our very own President Serpentia Snow, who is rumoured to be devastated at this turn of events and unavailable for interview._

_So tune in tomorrow to find the latest gossip about the Hunger Games and everything Capitol. I am Cherrie Waddlesworth for Capitol Today, Happy Hunger Games and May the odds be ever in your favour."_

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><p><em><strong>So there it is, a chapter to reward you wonderful readers. Keep submitting and leaving reviews; I should be back with another chapter tomorrow or the day after.<strong>_

_**Do you think anything should change in terms of chariot rides, interviews, trainign etc.? Oh and as for how the Capitol will be split (into 12 distinct areas which will represent the corresponding district), that'll come up next chapter. **_

_**Ornella **_


	3. Interlude: Cherrie's Juice

_**This is not beta'd, I could really do with one in all honesty but I wanted to reward you lovely readers for all your reviews and submissions. Now that the cat is out the bag, and the Quell has been announced. But there were a few unanswered questions, and who else is there to find the answers other than Cherrie Waddlesworth: Capitol Journalist Extraordinaire who is interviewing our very own Head Gamemaker, Horatio Fiddlesworth.**_

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><p><strong>Cherrie Waddlesworth.<strong>

Slumped in my chair I am more than tempted to just tell the producers of Capitol Today that I'm sick; but since the Quell was announced, the Capitol need their leading journalist-cum-television presenter to serve them up the latest news. So, instead I settle for a large glass of chardonnay and chain smoking as if there is no tomorrow. My 'dressing room' which is no more than a glorified cupboard is full to the brim with lime green smoke, the signature of the only brand of cigarettes worth smoking: Slim Stix, not only do they provide the nicotine fix we crave but they're scientifically proven to help with weight loss. And I'm not only saying that because they endorse me, I have the waspish waist to prove it.

'_Five minutes, crew. This is your preliminary call Miss Waddlesworth.'_ Forever the martyr, I stab my cigarette out on the heinous fuchsia couch; seriously, they should know that the colour is last century, never mind last season. I am crucial to keeping the whole Capitol informed of the most current affairs, both political and celebrity, and this how they repay me? Furnishings that are more outdated than the Mona Lisa and a room that's too small to swing a stiletto.

But I am a professional, willing to suffer these adversities in order to keep the Capitol in the know about the latest fashion disasters and celeb scandals. That's real commitment; and on that note. Time to get ready: Bright purple wig styled like Marianne Antoinette, check. Spray on dress in the most 'it' shade of turquoise, check. No blotches on my pastel orange skin; check. Violet contacts, check. Coral lipstick, check. And to top it all off, my trademark headpiece of two ginormous cherries and my skyscraper silver heels. Show time.

As I'm walking through the corridors I'm receiving constant updates through my ear piece; seriously who cares if Fabio DeAngelo accidentally set himself on fire? There's only one thing anyone wants to know about this time of year, and this year they want to know even more: The Annual Hunger Games, I'm pretty sure it's the 175th. Suddenly I hear the theme music for my show and it is time to make my grand entrance in 5, 4, 3, 2… quick check in my compact to see if my 'presenter smile' is firmly in place, check. Annnd 1.

I walk out to thunderous applause, the fact it is pre-recorded makes no difference. I smile and wave, and blow kisses at my invisible audience; the producers made the executive decision that due to the 'sensitivity' of tonight's show content, it would be best to record without a live audience and then edit in 'audience reactions' later. Understandable I suppose, I can't even imagine how embarrassing it would be having audience member sobbing uncontrollably; it would be awful for my show's image.

"Hello and welcome to Cherrie's Juice. The top talk-show in the whole Capitol, with your hostess with the most-est. Me: Cherrie Waddlesworth who is here to give you the juiciest gossip to quench your thirst. And if I may say so, today we have the juiciest of news: If you haven't been living under a rock, and let's be honest, who does that? You would know all about the biggest twist in Hunger Games history, for one time and one time only: The Capitol itself is providing the tributes. I'm sure that it will be beyond amazing; the Valentino of Hunger Games and one to remember."

I am so good this, even I believe the cheery drivel coming out of my mouth. 'Yay, let's get excited about killing 23 of our own', honestly it is stupid; I thought this is why we had the God forsaken districts, to provide some good fun every year while we watch and cheer on our favourites. Kind of like horse racing, you don't make the jockeys run the race. Some pre-recorded gasps and cheers are played while the camera pans across the 'audience'; whoever writes my script needs to be slapped.

"I just can't wait to see how fabulous it'll be; when we show those districts exactly how it's done. But I am no Hunger Games expert, and with a more 'untraditional' twist to our beloved games; we definitely need some things clarifying. So here for an exclusive interview, that you won't see on CapiTV or Channel Capitol: Our very own Head Gamemaker, the dashing Horatio Fiddlesworth" I clap along enthusiastically as the golden skinned Gamemaker walks onto set, sending a jovial wave to the audience; his silver hair glittering under the studio lights. His black suit tailored to emphasize his muscular figure; the tight trousers highlighting other parts which send me into a simpering meltdown. I walk over and give him the customary air kiss before escorting him to the red leather sofa's where I will conduct the 'interview'. What can I say? I'm a woman who has a soft spot for men with golden dyed skin wearing suits, so maybe my hand does linger a tad longer than necessary but he's hardly pushing me away.

"Mr Fiddlesworth, I think I speak for everyone when I say we're so excited to have you on the show and how much better the Hunger Games have been since you were promoted to Head Gamemaker. Plus, I think I am speaking for all the ladies in the Capitol when I say you're looking phenomenal this evening." Horatio smiles at the compliments. Looking down in a gesture of humility'; please, if you can show me one humble person in the Capitol I'd eat my own foot. He knows how it works though: Compliment, compliment, question and I know the man is not a dimwit; he must know that this year, he's going to be facing more 'important' questions than ever before. As the cat-calls come from the speakers, he winks into the camera and I simper at his 'jest'.

"Thank you for your kind words Cherrie, and I must say you're looking flawless this evening. I'm so happy to be on the show, it's been a dream of mine for a while but please call me Horatio." I preen at his compliments, even if they were delivered with zero emotion and sound as though they come from a script. I look into the camera with my eyebrows raised, establishing a 'rapport' as the professionals would say; while the camera zooms in on the audience again I notice Horatio is wiping away sweat from his upper lip with a black, silk handkerchief. It seems that this whole Quell debacle is getting to him more than he's letting on; I would sympathise but I'm pretty sure his pay check and his dressing room are far superior to mine.

"Well then, Horatio. However nice it would be to sit around chatting; the audience have sent in some questions and it's my job to ask them. Now, the Hunger Games are one of our most favourite traditions; but with this untraditional twist is there anything we can expect?" I don't know, like 24 Victors or eliminating through mussing up someone's hair rather than killing them. Horatio takes a breath, looking at me a little harshly for me to be completely comfortable: Maybe he doesn't appreciate getting thrown straight into the deep end. But I only ask the questions, not write them.

"Well you said it yourself, the games are a tradition and we are ensuring that certain traditions remain in place. Although there have been a number of elements we've had to introduce to compensate for the Quell. For example, we're opening a series of centres throughout the Capitol where those eligible can learn about skills that can only be found in the districts; such as foraging, climbing etc. It is a well-known fact that the districts are more advantaged in this situation: Raised in an environment where they learn the skills to succeed in something like the games and we're trying to even the playing field out and give the Capitol children the best chance of survival." Pre-recorded oh's and ah's play, while I nod my head. My face twisted into a thoughtful expression, in all honesty I am more concerned with the upcoming shoe sale at the Beaumont Boutique but it is in the job description to be interested. After a few seconds I nod towards Horatio, gesturing for him to continue.

"Another thing to consider is how the Capitol tributes will be able to access the training building almost instantly, saving us a day which would usually consist of transporting the tributes from the districts to the Capitol. Therefore, we've decided that on that evening we would throw a mixer; in which the tributes can meet one another and meet their mentors." I nod along, the idea doesn't seem too ridiculous; but who will be the mentors? It's not as though we've had any Capitol Victors. Maybe their parents or something, Horatio must be able to read the confusion on my face because he smiles before patting me on the arm.

"The issue of mentors and escorts are something which caused a bit of a ruckus. Under President Snow's guidance, we've split the Capitol into 12 distinct areas; each which will represent one of Panem's districts. The tributes reaped from a particular area will be mentored by Victors from the corresponding district." Once again I'm drawing blanks until a map of the Capitol is brought up onto the screen positioned behind me, well it was the Capitol but it's been sectioned off into various sections and highlighted with a colour; the Gamemaker goes on to explain which areas represent which district. The blue section represents district four, the charcoal grey district 12 and so on. I hear the breathy voice of a producer prompting me to ask a question.

"That seems very efficient, but how about the stylists and the escorts who have family eligible for the reaping. Are you taking precautions to prevent any conflicts of interest?" What? It is a valid question, and if my producers have a problem with that then they should've given me a particular question to ask. Horatio looks a little taken aback, I'm a little insulted: I might be beautiful, but I do have a brain even if I don't squander it on boring things like science.

"Umm.. Everyone who plays a role in the games is expected to treat this like every other game. Utmost professionalism is expecting by everyone who plays a role, although we've taken every measure to ensure that a tribute would not be working with a loved one. Although this promises to be a memorable game, it will hold onto the basic traditions: The tributes will participate in the parade, undergo three days of training before an evaluation and have an interview before entering the arena." Someone needs to calm down; he isn't as dapper as he was five minutes ago as his voice adopts a sharp tone. The camera revolves around to another imaginary shot of the audience and Horatio is gesturing to the producers to wrap this up. Once I've been given the order, the cameras are back on me.

"Unfortunately Horatio, we're almost out of time. So one last question: What can we expect in this year's arena?" The golden Gamemaker looks upset that the interview is almost over; well if his career in gamemaking falls through he could always be an actor. He looks at the audience with an eyebrow raised, a cheeky grin lighting up his handsome features. Looking a lot more comfortable now that we're back in a 'safe area'.

"Well that would spoil the surprise, but I promise you that there will be more than enough twists and turns to keep you all entertained." Ah, a predictable response; how generic. The camera zooms in on me to 'close the show'. And Horatio gets up from his seat and leaves the stage without saying a word or anything; people these days.

"Well that's it folks, let's hear a round of applause for our fantastic guest Horatio Fiddlesworth whose had to go. I've heard that the role of Head Gamemaker keeps you very busy, tune in tomorrow for even more Hunger Games news as well as our weekly gossip updates. But for now, Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour." As my theme music plays and the credits begin to roll, I see Horatio storming away. So rude; I don't care how attractive the man is, there is never an excuse to be so discourteous. Manners cost nothing, and like I said: I was just doing my job, he didn't need to throw a hissy fit.

As the camera crew and the producers roll everything up, calling out their congratulations. I light up another Slim Stix, inhaling the candy apple flavoured smoke and feeling all my stress disappear; every year the Hunger Games are stressful for anyone in the broadcasting business. Especially the lucky person elected to be announcers, commentators or interviewers in the Hunger Games; but call me cynical when I say that I have a feeling that these games will cause a whole lot more stress. Can someone remind me why I do this to myself? Thank the Capitol for white wine is all I say.

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><p><strong>A statement from Serpentia Snow, President of the esteemed nation of Panem:<strong>

_In regards to this year's Quarter Quell, I must express my deepest sympathies to everyone within. My own heart aches with the realization that 23 of our very own Capitolites, each with a destiny before them; I cannot estimate how many tears I have shed on this matter. How devastating it is to know that we as a nation are destined to lose 23 people who could be future politicians or entrepreneurs; our future will lose 23 of its craftsmen._

_But we cannot allow this to cause mutiny, we mustn't allow this to rule our lives. For one will be rewarded in a way that words cannot describe, glory, fame and eternal recognition. The one thing we envy of the districts is their ability to house a Victor, to have someone who overcomes all the odds come from amongst their very own. We will have a Victor; a Capitolite will be the one to have overcome the odds: A Victor to send the message that we are superior, a figure for us to rally around as a symbol of the Capitol's strength and commitment to rising to any challenge proposed to us._

_So yes, the Quell shall continue. Our forefather's worked to create the Capitol we know and love, and we will respect their choice to send in Capitol raised tributes. We are not ungrateful; we are not savage beasts who shirk courtesy: We will follow through with what they want. As a thank you for the path they have paved for us to walk, as a declaration that we are the deserving leaders of Panem: Unafraid to lead by example, to enter the arena and cement our supremacy for years to come._

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><p><em><strong>Another short chapter; I know that I could probably write longer chapters. But these are simply snapshots into the build-up of the Reapings. The next chapter will be longer, I will be introducing a few mentors and the districts reaction to the Quell as well as a the Escorts chatting about the games. And by then, I hope to have collected all my tributes and prescribed them an 'area' so that I can begin with the Reapings.<strong>_

_**Tribute slots are still open.**_

_**Thanks, as always. **_

_**Remember to review.**_

_**-Ornella**_


	4. Districts and Gossip

_**Well, hello again. **_

_**Judging by the number of hits on this story and the reviews I've received: People are enjoying this story as much as I enjoy writing it; and I'm an impatient reader, so I just wanna get to the games BUT… Here's your latest chapter, a longer one which seems fillerish but definitely is important. **_

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><p><strong>Francesca Willowton, District 7 Victor.<strong>

"…What did you expect me to say? District 7 is full of trees, so there are a lot of trees." I was smirking to myself as I twirled in front of my mirror, blowing kisses to myself. Don't mind me saying this but I look bloody good, no; not good, stunning. My secret: the many wonders of the push up bra, the only thing I will ever be grateful to the Capitol for. But then again, the whole pre-meditated murder of 23 kids a year kind of makes it redundant. I can practically hear Gadjet's exasperation leaking from the loudspeaker of my 'Capitol Issued Tele-Communication Device', but we District Scum call it a good old telephone.

"Francesca, although it is enlightening to hear about the physical geography of your home District; I was enquiring as to the state of your District after the Quell announcement." If I rolled my eyes any more, there is a 100% chance I'd give myself repetitive strain injury. Good old Gadjet, the bloke is only about two years older than me but likes to talk to me in that soothing voice that makes me feel about 5 years old. Why the Hell are we even friends? I can just imagine him now, jotting something down in that notepad that I genuinely believe is surgically attached to his hand and glancing at his watch. Expecting an answer.

"Well Sir Gadjet, esteemed colleague of mine and District 3 Native. District 7 has fell into complete chaos upon the announcement that two children are not going to be mercilessly killed. They've taking it so badly, suicide rates have almost quadrupled." Gadjet's intake of breath on the other end of the line almost sends me into a fit of giggles; give this boy a scientific conundrum and he's in his element. Expose him to the beauty of sarcasm and the boy is completely oblivious.

"That's horrific news Francesca, I'm so sorry. Although I would've presumed that the reaction would've been positive in its nature. We here in 3 are celebrating the news, without the annual reapings it gives the youngsters more time to devote to revision for their upcoming exams." Slap me with a fish and call me Judie; for someone so smart, this boy is as dense as most of the morons from District 2. There must be something in the water down at District 3, your life has been spared for at least a year and you revise; you don't need to a scientist to know there is something wrong with that equation.

"Gadj, remember when I tried to tell you about sarcasm? You called it 'the use of irony to mock or convey contempt'. Well that was sarcasm. District 7 is bloody ecstatic, partying in the streets; partying in the woods and partying a little bit more. Because like most people normal people, we prefer interaction with other people to celebrate. Rather than sticking our heads in books." Hearing Gadj's 'oh' of realisation will never get old; call me weird but I get a secret thrill from outwitting someone who is practically a genius.

"Oh, well it wasn't very amusing. However, I am pleased that your District is enjoying this proverbial calm before the storm; but something about this whole scenario puts me 'on edge' as you would say." Bloody clever people always looking into things far too much, no wonder so many of them go insane. What is there to be on edge about? I hold up a brown dress with green detailing, before hastily throwing it to the floor: I've been dressed as a tree once before and I never want to repeat the experience.

"Gadj, I know you're practically some science fiction God or something. But listen to me this one time, there is nothing to get your circuit in a knot about. So throw off the lab coat and grab a drink. You're 23, not 230 so act your damn age." I love Gadjet, but sometimes he's so uptight that it gets me uptight. And when I get uptight, the shit hits the 'proverbial' fan. Flicking through my wardrobe, I rip a pink dress from the wardrobe and throw it in a pile to be burned. The last time I wore pink was during my Victory Tour; I've always hated the colour and my poor stylist had to force me into the abomination of a dress. Poor bastard got two black eyes and a broken arm for his hard work.

"I understand what you're saying, but we shouldn't be so flippant about this precarious situation. We are still expected to mentor these tributes after all, however for once we will not have any forewarning in regards to their strengths. It will be a most difficult year, and it could definitely result in any form of reaction." Shit, it is my year to mentor this year. Damn you Gertrude Elmheart, of all the years to die; you choose the one when I could spend all year boozing it up and laughing at the Capitol. The old bint always had it in for me, and now she's screwing me over from beyond the grave.

"I really don't give a flying donkey Gadj, they can all hack each other to pieces while I spend my time drinking copious amounts of coffee, procrastinating and ogling Jasten Yardley like a dog in heat. Hopefully all the little pansies will fall off their podiums and get blown sky high; that way we go home early and still get a big, fat cheque." Call me heartless, but the Capitol didn't jump to my defence when I was dropped into the arena; I was potentially the first tribute ever to not get even one sponsor. Like, not even one of those weirdoes who support the underdog but I still won. So if they think I'll be jumping through hoops to get one of their 'precious, sweetie, darling children' home then then I have two words for them; One begins with f and the other is off.

"Don't be so obtuse, these are potentially the most important games we will play a role in. If we are seen to be anything less than catering towards this particular set of tributes; we could be accused of treason to the Capitol or something equally ludicrous. We're under the lens just as much as the Capitol, if we don't do our job properly the backlash will be severe." The 'your family will be brutally killed' or 'a strange outbreak of disease will decimate the population in your District' is left unsaid, but it is definitely understood.

I fall backwards onto my bed, my life sucks: I've known it ever since I was reaped for the 169th Hunger Games, I've known it since President Snow became my pimp but I always went along with it all. So I could sleep peacefully, knowing I wouldn't wake up one day to find my whole family had been involved in an 'accident'. Accidents which are pretty common for the families of Victor's who don't play nicely with our bitch of a President. But this really is the cherry on bloody top, I have to be 'pally pally' with brats who probably spend their time cheering every year when kids are killed. All in the name of entertainment of course, I've had more entertaining bowel movements than the Hunger Games.

"You're bloody right, but how am I meant to help some kid who is more concerned with avoiding dirt survive? I doubt they'll be able to win by pulling one another's wigs. These kids are more used to swinging hairbrushes around in front of mirrors than anything that can help them in the arena. Reckon that the Victor will have to mentor though? Cause if they don't I'll be pissed off, and if Snow isn't pimping them out I'll hit the roof." I hear Gadj humming along with my rant; he knows how I get sometimes and is one of the few people that can tolerate it. Now, that's the reason we're friends. And even if it leaves a bad taste in my mouth: 9/10 times, Gadj is always right; like the way he implied that us mentors are stuck up shit creek without a paddle. Suddenly I don't feel like partying, in fact the old feeling has returned that I have an invisible axe held at my neck.

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><p><strong>Onyxus Bellington, District One Victor.<strong>

I can imagine the outlying districts now, thanking a non-existent deity for sparing their children. Overjoyed at the fact their pathetic runts may be spared for one more year; believing that the Capitol deserve to have their children slaughtered. Why? That is what I want to know, so that the one year a Capitolite wins will overshadow every other victory; to win the Quell. To be admitted to a prestigious hall of fame, exclusive to those who have dominated under the most horrific circumstances the Capitol can concoct. To say I was angry would be a lie, an adjective such as livid would be more fitting for my current state of mind. Betrayed would also suffice; this was meant to be a year when District One would reap the benefits of a Quell Victory. Despite our success in the Hunger Games, we have not once had a Victor return from a Quell.

This year I was going to change that. Since I became principle trainer at the Academy 7 years ago; I personally handpicked two tributes who I knew would bring back the crown, there was no doubt in my mind. I had groomed these children to become emotionless killers, ensured they were nothing but masters in the art of combat and strategy. One of them was destined to bring home the glory we deserve and they've been robbed. I've been robbed, and my glorious District has been robbed. I slam my fist into my desk, not even the resounding crunch helps alleviate my foul mood. I hear a knock at the door.

"Come in" I practically roar, the door opens and in walks in Adonis Orton. His jaw set, my rage mirrored in his cold blue eyes which are narrowed into slits; undiluted fury seems to radiate from every pore. He stalks into the room, silently seething as he bows his head; the traditional sign of respect the students of the Academy show to their trainers. Adonis takes a seat, his usually handsome face twisted in ire; looking more vicious that I'd seen him before.

"Sir, you asked for my presence." His voice a cold monotone, words clipped; I admire his self-control. If it were I who had this opportunity snatched away from me, I would lay waste to anything or anyone that crossed my path.

"We're waiting for Ribbon and Silk." He nods his head in acknowledgement but then lowers his eyes to my desk, smirking when he noticed the indent of my fist. I glance at the clock hanging above the wall; 12.17. They're two minutes late; I'm not impressed. We are District One, superior in every sense to every other District and because of that I would expect people to be punctual. Me and my male protégée continue to brood in silence, most likely condemning the Capitol inside our heads for making a mockery of our District for depriving us of this chance.

"Finally." Ribbon waltzes into the room, looking as calm and composed as the day she slit her district partner's throat while he slept. As always, my colleague looks flawless without a hair out of place even though I knew she was leading a hand-to-hand combat workshop. I glare as raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, full lips twisting into a mocking smile. Any other day but today I would have taken the time to admire her statuesque figure, scantily clad in a training bra and shorts.

"Well don't you look happy to see me? Why the long face?" She pouts as I glare at her; her soprano voice mocking my deep baritone. Showing disrespect in front of a student and trying to usurp my authority; Ribbon has a special talent of aggravating me even further at times like this. She has a knack for picking at people until they snap, solely for her entertainment and to embarrass the other person. A conniving bitch, an annoying bitch but unfortunately a lethal bitch, that is one hell of a teacher.

"Don't pretend you don't know Ribbon, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't play your little games today." She saunters over before collapsing into a chair rolling her eyes at what she would call me being 'over-dramatic'. She is the one whose reaction is astounding, so unconcerned with the revelation of the Quell; lacking in District pride, a disgrace of a Victor.

"Fine, since you and Addi here are so broken hearted. I won't tell you what I've heard, from a pretty reliable source." If I could, I would reach across my desk and throttle the woman who seems to have made it her personal mission to be the bane of my life. Unfortunately, she isn't just a pretty face and I doubt I could beat her. What could she have heard? That the Quell was a ruse, because that is all I'd want to hear right about now.

"Well, you won't be saying anything until Silk gets here. I can't believe she's this late, it's as though all the discipline I've instilled in her has disappeared now she knows she can't enter the Games." Adonis is still sitting with his arms folded, jaw tensing as he stares aimlessly at the royal blue walls of my office; Ribbon however, looks down at her nails giggling to herself. I scrunch up a piece of paper.

"Where is Silk, Ribbon? And don't bother trying to lie to me." Ribbon huffs and crosses her legs, her smile widening; Adonis flinches at the sinister expression on her face, I'm however desensitized to when Ribbon has one of her 'moments' for want of a better word.

"Unfortunately Silky is a little pre-occupied at the moment." Ribbon bats her eyelids, lashes fluttering everywhere; but her 'I'm innocent' façade is as useless as a chocolate fireguard. Ribbon is as about as innocent as I am an ambassador for District equality; not at all. She chews one of her nails, a contemplative expression on her face.

"How is she pre occupied exactly?" Adonis is looking a little weary now, my voice is trembling with anger; I'm holding onto the edge of my desk with such force that you can hear it splintering. He shifts his chair away from Ribbon, the potential target of my wrath. She however looks wholly unconcerned, yawning as she winks at Adonis who looks positively alarmed to be present for an infamous Ribbon/Onyxus dispute.

"She is pre-occupied trying to regain consciousness. Well what happened was, Little Miss Onyxus' favourite was in a bad mood when she came to class today; such an awful temper. Don't you agree Addi? Well she was getting a bit too over enthusiastic when it came to sparring with other members of the class. So me, being the ever thoughtful educator that I am, offered to be here sparring partner. And well, you know the ending." I grit my teeth; Silk had every right to be angry; she shouldn't have to deal with a potentially unstable teacher who wasn't supporting her through her devastating loss.

"Well, now that's cleared up. Would you mind sharing your 'information'?" I haven't got the energy to even try and scold my fellow Victor; Ribbon look contemplative for a second, before shaking her head; her smile unfaltering. She pretends to be thinking while I wait for whatever it is she needs to say, Adonis on the other hand is staring at her intently; playing up to her constant need for attention, encouraging her to be more difficult.

"Maybe, if you tell me why Addi boy is here. Hate to burst your bubble, but he isn't going to be competing in the Games so his presence here and in your 'grand scheme of things' is completely unecessary." Adonis flinches at the casual reminder that everything he's worked for has gone down the drain; condemned to a life where he won't even have the opportunity to bring home the glory he knows he deserves. But I may as well be thankful, that 'maybe' isn't an outright refusal.

"As you may know, the Capitol has opened 'training academies' for the eligible tributes. I'm leaving for the Capitol early, to scout for anyone who may actually have talent in area one. District One may not be able to send tributes, but you can be guaranteed that I'll be mentoring the Victor; see if I can salvage some pride for our District in this mess. While I'm away, you two and Silk will be responsible for maintaining the Academy and ensuring that I have something to work with for next year."

Adonis nods his head, automatically accepting the offer; I can see the hurt in his eyes that he's effectively been demoted from potential Victor to Academy trainer but it's happened. I can guarantee that Silk, when she's conscious will also agree. Ribbon, on the other hand, is shaking her head; flat out refusing my offer; if blood could boil, then mine would be searing my veins. Instead I continue to grind my teeth, doubtful that I'll have any left if she continues to grind against my last nerve.

"Oh Onyxy, I'm honoured you'd want me to look after your Academy with your two little sycophants. I really am, but don't you worry; you won't have a chance to miss me since I'll be coming with you this year." Adonis' usual blank expression morphs into one of complete shock, while I'm sure mine is one of utter horror. Ribbon has only mentored once, she brought back a Victor and was granted the honour of 'retiring' by President Snow herself; although there are a number of rumours as to how my 'colleague' managed to get that to happen. Especially since I've been in the game a lot longer, and I'm still expected to mentor on a rotational basis.

"Don't look so shocked, Serpentia asked me herself. And who am I to refuse? I'm sure that we're going to have so much fun, fun, fun as good old Trixie would say." To say I'm a ruthless killing machine is the honest truth; I slaughtered anyone who crossed me in the Arena without a second thought. But the prospect of having to spend prolonged amounts of time in close proximity to both the insufferable District One escort and Ribbon makes my mouth dry; this is really shaping up to be a bad year. Before I can even string together a coherent train of thought Ribbon is up and leaving the room.

"Ribbon, aren't you meant to be telling us something?" I'm pretty sure her little 'titbit' of information couldn't do anything to worsen my mood, but Ribbon shrugs her shoulders sending a wink at me. Adonis' carefully controlled expression is not shattered; he looks like a lost child as he looks around the room; the arena couldn't of broken him, but the torments of the arena are nothing compared to Ribbon Milanos.

"Nah, I think it can wait. I think I might go and have a manicure, make myself nice and beautiful for the Capitol. So, when's our train leaving buddy?" After my games, when the littlest spark could send my temper into a raging inferno; my therapist told me that deep, calming breathes would help me maintain control. But right now, deep breathes aren't supressing my desire to fly at Ribbon; but the fear of what would happen does. It is not secret that Ribbon is one of our President's favourite Victors, and attacking her would be redundant; Serpentia is exceptionally 'protective' of her favourites and there is a reason that I'm one of the Victors who aren't plagued with remorse, I've never had a death wish.

"We leave at 9 am sharp tomorrow morning, please try not to be late. I will not hesitate in leaving you behind. I really suggest you buck up your ideas, we need to make sure we mentor a Victor. Ribbon are you even listening to me?" I will my voice to come out strong; to reassure everyone, including myself, that I'm not intimidated by the blonde bombshell. Unfortunately my voice just sounds tired, this unintended sign of resignation makes Ribbon laugh; radiating smugness. She breezes from the room without another word. Adonis releases a breath and stares after her with a look of admiration mixed with fear.

"Adonis, you're dismissed. I'll leave instructions for what to do while I'm away." My voice is still weary, and I'm sat slumped in my chair; mentally exhausted but Adonis knows not to cross me. He stands up, bows in respect and leaves the room. Well in the future if I want to know if someone has the mental strength for the games, I'll lock them in a room with myself and Ribbon when she is in one of her uncooperative moods.

It seems as though someone is trying to punish me and my illustrious District; first we're deprived of the chance to have a District One Victor for the Quarter Quell, and then I find out I'm being stuck with Ribbon Milanos as my fellow mentor. What heinous crime must I have committed to deserve this? I lean back and close my eyes, knowing that this Hunger Games is going to be the most stressful of my life; and that includes when I was a tribute. I personally book a 40 minute block in a combat studio; I might not be able to pound Ribbon into dust, but I'm sure decimating a few dummies with my trusted sword will definitely help relieve the tension.

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><p><strong>Drusilla Davenport, District 9 Escort.<strong>

Busy is not the word. Ever since I found out that the Quell, I realised that I would need to be on top fashion form: Seriously, imagine if one of my tributes were dressed better than me. I would never forgive myself; it is my duty as Ambassador of our wonderful Capitol to be the best dressed member of my little 'team'. In District 9, I never have to worry about with all those pesky ragamuffins who can't afford a slice of bread, never mind Capitol couture.

But this year, the stakes are higher and I need to excel even my tremendously high standards: But as always, Plastic Patricia my beautiful credit card has saved the day. Laden with shopping bags, filled to the brim with clothes that are going to ensure that I am the brightest star of this year's Hunger Games; skin dyed the perfect shade of lavender, cotton candy pink wig and the latest Faeroe heels encrusted with tiny amethysts. Looking this good, and feeling this gorgeous can only mean one thing: Drinky poo's with my girl and honorary homosexual.

I stroll into Gofu, the only restaurant to be nowadays and haunt for all the local celebrities. Well it is on the weekend, right now it is a Tuesday and there are just a few people littered throughout the bar; I have a strange desire to ensure everyone is sitting in particular places, the place looks in disarray. Everything would look a lot better if it were more organised, and well put together: A lot like me, with my tangerine dress and fluorescent yellow blazer. I am serving up some citrus chic. I spot Barbie with her orange afro and Javier with his skin dyed the most dazzling shade of ruby gathered around a table near the bar. My mother always told me that I should walk with purpose, and failing that: Walk as though you father or your husband owns the place.

As I walk over to my fellow Escorts, head held high and heels clicking against the black marble floor; I notice that I'm getting a lot of attention and if someone is being gracious enough to give you the attention you deserve, it is only fair that you give them a little show. I swing my hips back and forth, making sure that they see my perk bottom wiggling seductively and throw a flirtatious wink at my little admirers. When I near the table, Barbie jumps up automatically to start praising my outfit and complimenting my dye job while Javier just waves and orders us a drink: Amortentia or something like that, either way it is bright pink and smells like vanilla and almond oil.

"D.D, you look F to the A, to the B to the ULOUS. You're going to knock everyone dead. I was considering getting some implants but, you know, I like to stay looking natural." Barbie, as buoyant as ever. Despite her being airheaded, I like to keep her around to pamper my ego which is often neglected during the Hunger Games when all anyone cares about is the tributes; who more often than not, have no fashion sense, no decorum and spend far too much time snivelling and then dying. Javier simply scoffs at Barbie, who he deems and likes to remind everyone every few days that she is a complete and utter imbecile.

I suppose some of the things she says are pretty preposterous, but at least she comes from a good pedigree. But calling her look 'natural' is a tad too far, she has been advised by doctors to stay as far away from open flames as possible due to the exorbitant amounts of silicone her body is pumped with; either way, I still preen at her praise taking a delicate sip of my cocktail. Oh, vanilla and strawberry.

"Thank you Barbie, you look rather radiant yourself today." I roll my eyes at Javier, who is shaking his head at Barbie who is clapping and simpering at my compliment. Well it is pretty difficult to not be radiant when your skin is dyes a garish shade of yellow. We fall into general chit chat, who's been cheating on who; if anyone has been lucky enough to take a Victor to bed: The standard conversations for us Escorts. Unsurprisingly, Javier leads us onto gossip: He may like to act all suave and 'above it all' with his porcelain smile and platinum blonde hair but everyone knows that this man is drawn to gossip like a mutation is drawn to a tribute's blood. I chuckle to myself, I'm so good with Hunger Games humour; I should write a joke book in my spare time.

"So has anyone heard the news, it doesn't matter cause I'm going to tell you. There's a rumour going around that Sabrina Phury's son is going to volunteer, Samson or something." Oh my Capitol. This is some big news; Barbie looks so shocked she may fall out of her chair. Samson Phury, from what I've head he is the spitting image of his father, Clatus Phury: District 2 native and winner of the 158th Hunger Games.

I don't know if it's true but it could be. Sabrina loves the games, every year she sponsors a boy in the games; and if they win, she pays for them to play other sordid games in her 'personal arena' if you catch my drift. Clatus was the exception, she paid for him to marry her and since then he has lived in the Capitol; although there are other rumours that he takes his son with him on sabbaticals to his original district. If those rumours are true, Samuel or whatever his name is could definitely be volunteering.

"Oh no way, Samson is a hunk; with those big arms and I heard from Valencia who hear from Celia who heard from Caitlyn who heard from Serena who heard from somebody's second cousin, four times removed that another part of him is big." She winks in what I'm sure is meant to be a 'seductive way', but I can't see it: Samson is a child, and I don't care how impressive certain appendages of his may be. Thankfully, I've been blessed with higher than normal intellect; well, I'm more intelligent than Barbie anyway.

"Javier, is he trained? Because Haus of Haze has brought in their autumn range and I have my eyes on the most gorgeous evening gown; olive green with gold fringing. And a winning bet would definitely help." Barbie is literally eyeing Javier like a dog eyes a bone, desperate to hear what else he knows. I have class though, swirling my drink around my glass and eyeing him speculatively while he seems to be thinking.

"Well there's no proof, but I have heard that Clatus takes his son to 2 every year for a 'break from the city' and that he actually helps train their tributes. Plus, Sabrina has supposedly refused Samson's continual requests to move out to a District so he can participate; so I'd say that he definitely has some tricks up his sleeve." I make a mental note of this, if he volunteers I know exactly where I'm putting my money; with his Dad as a mentor you can be sure that he'll be getting all the sponsors and Sabrina literally bathes in money so he won't want for a thing. I take out my 'Escort Planner' when I catch the recently issued map of the Capitol with 12 distinct areas, well isn't this interesting.

"Oh my, my, my… Well it seems that if Samson does volunteer, he is going to be representing District 1. Imagine that Javier, Onyxus having to mentor his biggest rival's son in the games. Scandalous." Javier instantly snatches the map from my hand, locating the address of Sabrina's mansion; located in the centre of the area clearly labelled 'One' and his jaw hits the floor. Barbie looks as though she's been told that men can give birth, excited she can avoid the pain but weary of all the whinging that would ensue.

"Well that'll definitely make things a little more interesting, seems like we're in for an exciting games girlies. This calls for more cocktails." Exciting, if this pans out it seems that we're going to have fighting in the control rooms as well as the arena; outshining the Capitol tributes may be difficult but it seems like we've been rewarded with front row tickets to the inevitable testosterone fuelled grudge match between two of the nation's favourite careers. Oh this is going to be so exciting, I cannot wait for these games to start now and bearing witness to the inexorable backstage battles.

"Amen to that." Javier and I clink our glasses together, sharing an excited smile. Barbie is still sitting there, wide eyed and overwhelmed by all the information. By the time everything sinks into her impenetrable skull, I'm sure that we'll be onto the next potential scandal of the 175th Hunger Games. As Trixie Gaudington, District One's infamous escort, would say 'Happy, happy Hunger Games' cause once I've placed my bet; I'm going to be getting that dress.

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><p><strong>A reward for my amazing readers, so what do we think of our Mentors and Escorts? I am going to offer you a quick option: We can either introduce the subplot in the next chapter or have a reaping? I personally would prefer to introduce the subplot as it is probably going to be ignored for a while as tributes are introduced, and if I put it between Reaping chapters it could be overlooked.<strong>

**Anyways, leave a review with your thoughts etc.**

**Thanks**

**-Ornella **


	5. Area One: The Starlet and The Soldier

**I intended to put part of the subplot here, but I decided on giving you a taste of the Reapings. Because I wrote this out at work, and I'm having to try and craft the 'Sub Plot' chapter into existence. So here it is... 'The Starlet and The Soldier'**

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><p><strong>Kloi Greyson (17), Area One.<strong>

"…and by adding the juice of the dragon fruit, it'll give the sorbet that distinctive sweetness that will have all your friends begging for the recipe." I smile into the camera, a forced smile I've been forced to wear almost every day since I became a 'Child Star'. Singing, dancing and appearing in infomercials that I can no longer watch without wanting to curl up into a ball and simply disappear. Unfortunately, that was just the beginning: The pageants, the televised talent shows and making sure that everyone knew the name Kloi Greyson.

Growing up in the public eye, without having a shred of privacy I always craved anonymity. How I savoured those precious few moments when I could be invisible, not having to play the role of Little Miss Perfect. I could make mess, sing along with a hairbrush in front of my mirror or just simply watch Capitol TV and stuff my face with cakes and sweets. My favourite thing to do was cook, to take all these ingredients and fuse them together to create a culinary masterpiece. Experimenting with flavours, playing a game of Russian Roulette with my taste buds.

It gave me such a thrill, that moment when you don't know what to expect. When I was younger, singing and dancing made me feel the same way. Like a bird, soaring through the skies; nobody could touch me. So cooking became my escape, until I started to cook for my parents many dinner parties. You see my parents have this philosophy that if you have a talent, someone has a cheque. Factor in the fact that my parents many connections, they knew the exact person who had that cheque. And so 'At Home With Kloi' was born, a 20 minute segment of Capitol Today that teaches the Capitolites how to create quick and easy meals. So now even cooking has lost its joy and the fake smile is fixed firmly in place.

I know I should be grateful, so many people want what I have: That moment when someone stops you in the street to congratulate you on your latest endeavour, the freebies from all the designer boutiques and the glamorous parties. And maybe it is because I've practically had this handed to me on a plate, maybe it's just me being fickle: Wanting what I can't have. But this is the hand I was dealt with, so I'm going to do the best I can: If that includes making cliché films about young love and having paparazzi constantly breathing down my neck. So be it.

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><p>I feel dead on my feet as I walk off set, having to shoot the same scene for my show thirty times. My jaw aches from constantly smiling; but I can breathe easy now, well as easily as you can when Reaping Day is tomorrow. It is not every day that Kloi Greyson has an evening to herself. To be Kloi the teenage girl, rather than Kloi the 'girl with talent oozing from every orifice' as a journalist so eloquently described me last month.<p>

Tonight I can eat chocolate ice cream, catch up with Lari and maybe arrange a quick make out session with Mikael, although that is something I try to avoid as often as possible but hormones play by a different set of rules. And then I had better try and tackle that mountain of homework I've been neglecting. I laugh to myself: Arranged make out sessions, having to squeeze in time to see my sister and doing homework on a supposedly 'free evening'. That is the true price of stardom.

"Looooiiiiiiii." I turn and see Larissa running at me; I brace myself as she crashes into me like a meteor. Giggling as she plants a massive kiss on my cheek. Her hair is now dyed an obscene shade of blue to 'compliment' her lime green skin and navy eyes. Sometimes, I'm secretly glad that mother has always been adamant that I don't have any alterations, since my image is one of 'natural beauty' because if we're being frank: Larissa looks like the love child of a blueberry and a bunch of seaweed. But thankfully her smile is untouched and the same as ever. Bright and beautiful, a real smile unlike the one I have to plaster on like the makeup I have applied daily.

"Lari, what are you doing here? I thought you were busy 'finding yourself' and wouldn't be home until later." Larissa just grins; her 'finding herself' phase has lasted for about 2 years now. Ever since she quit the showbiz scene to do what she wanted. The tabloids labelled her as a child star that had gone off of the rails, but I couldn't help but admire her bravery. I wish I could tell my parents that I wanted to just have some more time to myself, but I just can't.

People in the Capitol view the Greyson's as the cornerstone of show business. My father works as a famous film director and my mother was his 'muse'. They won awards as often as most people changed their underwear, and it is my responsibility to carry on their legacy. To win the awards and give the stereotypical speech when I thank every man and his dog, to have my face plastered across billboards.

"Finding yourself gets boring after a while, so instead I toddled down to the new training centre to watch boys throw things around in a stunning display of testosterone; and then I kinda threw some knives around. A talent I won't be showing off if I ever join Cirque du Capitol." She shows me her hand which is littered with small lacerations, bandaged pretty shoddily too. I would give her the same lecture I've given her every time I've allowed her to cook with me in the kitchen, knives require a firm grip and precision. It's not as if you can handle a meat cleaver with such poor focus.

The thing that alarms me most is how my stomach drops at the mention of the training centre. I've been meaning to drop in and see what it was all about. Just in case I was reaped, it wouldn't hurt to have been given a few pointers on how to survive in the Hunger Games but unfortunately my schedule didn't allow for such 'pointless activities'. Or at least my mother thought so. Thankfully I'm pretty good at learning vicariously.

"So what was it like? Learn anything interesting." Larissa just looked at me like I'd threatened to beat her with a kumquat or some other obscure fruit. I should've known better than to ask her really. Lana has a very one track mind, and its current track is boys; hot boys, ugly boys, clever boys. Yet again, another thing I can't help but envy about my sister: She can waste time on frivolous things like developing insane crushes and pining over boys.

"Well, I saw the hottest boy alive. Samson Phury, you know his dad is a previous Victor right? And his mom is as rich as sin? Well, he is blooming gorgeous: All dangerous blue eyes and rippling muscles. Plus he can kick some serious ass, swinging swords around like they weigh nothing. And even better, I got to meet Onyxus Bellington today and Ribbon Milanos…" My sister rambled on and on about her encounter with this Phury boy and the mentors.

I just feel uneasy about the whole situation. I've never been the biggest Hunger Games fan since I'm constantly travelling from set to set and then doing TV appearances. But knowing that the Hunger Games are practically on our doorstep definitely forced me to think about a topic I would much rather continue to ignore. The image in my head of a silent Reaper waiting to collect the souls of 23 children is much more chilling knowing that, this year, the children could be people that I know or care about. Thankfully I'm spared the problem of having to interrupt my sister's seemingly endless monologue about biceps and 'entrancing' eyes.

"Kloi, where do you think you're going?" I freeze, my mother's voice isn't loud or even threatening; but it wields a certain authority I can't help but obey. She may as well have screamed 'stop moving' or hit me with a Taser. Larissa rolls her eyes at my reaction, totally unfazed that her own mother has basically ignored her existence.

Regina Gellar-Greyson is walking towards us: A basic reflection of me in 20 years' time with long blonde hair and startling green eyes. 'Movie Star Beautiful' is how we've been described, with flawless skin the colour of cream and our long, lean legs. But whereas I seem to bumble around, my mother walks with conviction; knowing exactly what she wants and knowing exactly how she is going to get it. My heart drops when I see her carrying her faithful organiser, I may as well kiss my night of 'relaxation' goodbye. Mommy means business.

"Well, we're going to stuff our faces until we can't move and watch horrific romance films." Larissa's blunt answer doesn't even compute with my mother whose gaze remains solely on me. A single eyebrow rises, as if daring me to corroborate my sister's story. Larissa looks at me, silently willing me to stand up to mom and tell her that I'm taking the night off. I really wish I could. I lick my lips.

"We were planning a girl's night. I haven't really seen Lari in so long and with the Reapings tomorrow; no one knows what's going to happen. Plus, I have homework to do." Homework? Could I have thought of a more pathetic excuse? Mother gives an indignant sniff before fixing Larissa with a glare as if to blame her for my poor attitude. Larissa holds her glare, unfaltering and I just stare at her. How sure she is of herself?

"Mom, you can't guarantee neither of us will be going into the games. You can't, and I haven't even had a spare moment to go down to the training centre; please just let us have this one night to let our hair down." I almost choke. I just stood up to my mother. Yes it was whiny and basically begging, but I have contradicted her somehow. Larissa looks at me like I've grown an extra head before a proud smirk curls her lips and I feel a rush, like adrenaline is coursing through my veins at a million miles per minute. Mom on the other hand looks as though she is about to throttle someone.

"Kloi Greyson, how dare you entertain this ridiculous notion that you or Larissa shall be reaped; especially yourself. You are a star. The girl who gives them talent when they have cheques. You have modelling scouts, publishers and movie directors queuing for miles. You are practically the face of the young Capitol; it wouldn't surprise me if your name was removed from the bowl." The balloon of hope which was swelling inside of me has effectively been popped. She is right, I can't go to the games if the Capitol is awaiting the sequel to my recent blockbuster. Mom grins as she hears my sigh of resignation, knowing that once again it is inevitable that I will submit to her every whim. I avoid looking at Larissa, knowing disappointment is all I would find.

"Okay then, what's the plan?" Mom instantly flips open her organizer and pulls a pen from somewhere. I should really appreciate her for managing all my appointments as well as her own, but right now all I want to do is set fire to that damn thing. I wait patiently, looking over to see Larissa glaring so intensely at mom that it wouldn't be surprising if lasers shot from her irises and incinerated our mother where she stood.

"Well, right now we're on our way to a meet and greet in preparation for your new range of recipe books; then you've got the first interview for your biography 'Young, Rich and Fabulous' before we're back to the studio to film tomorrow's segments since you're having to attend the Reaping and to round it all off you have a late night interview with Fillipo Fillips." If I had the energy to make my eyes bug out of my head I would, Larissa opens her mouth to object but I wave her off. This is the price of stardom, and I've got to pay it even if I don't know how on Earth I'm going to get the energy to do all of it.

"I'll be waiting in the car, don't take too long." Mom then leaves, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor of the TV studio; each harsh click a reminder to not keep her waiting. I turn to Larissa, ready to start apologising and begging for forgiveness but she just shakes her head, pulling a bright yellow bottle of NRG from her bag. My sister is a life saver. I grab the bottle and chug it down as quickly as possible, not caring that I don't look 'classy' or 'sophisticated'. The effect is instantaneous. I suddenly feel more alert, my earlier weariness ceasing to exist. How could anyone survive without caffeine and every other stimulant currently keeping me awake?

"You have saved my life Larissa, I was about to drop dead. Literally, you deserve a medal or something. Wait up for me, we'll still watch films and stuff our faces. And tomorrow, after the reaping we're breaking into the liquor cabinet. It is an official day off after all." I'm practically humming with excess energy as I pull Larissa into a bone crushing hug. She pats me on the back, laughing at my out of character enthusiasm. Caffeine and whatever else festers in the stimulant drinks that keep me going really do have an astounding effect on me.

"Okay then, I'm sure I can keep myself occupied while you are off being Supergirl. But you're taking the wrap for the liquor cabinet. Now hurry up before mother dearest sends out a search party and I'm caught in the crossfire." Oh no, I can imagine mom will be tutting while she's staring at her watch. I give Larissa one last kiss and run off in pursuit of my mom, ready to keep the fake smile in place while I parade around being Little Miss Perfect for a little while longer. Already imagining the bliss of when I get to roll into bed. I can't fathom people who long to be a celebrity, willing to sacrifice their privacy for what? Having their life dictated to them by a little black book.

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><p><strong>Samson Phury (18), Area One.<strong>

Every muscle is screaming is protest as I run along the gymnasium floor, carrying a 5kg bag after spending all day at the Area One Training Centre. My father throws missiles with impressive speed and startling accuracy, but I ignore the burning sensation which resonates throughout my body. Ducking and weaving as the small balls my father fires at me at an even greater speed. I can feel my heart beating with such ferocity, as though it will burst from my chest at any second.

"If it's getting too much Samson, you can stop." My father's voice a blank monotone, but I flinch at the tone. The tone he uses for those in the District 2 Academies that aren't matching up to his high standards. I shake my head, picking up the pace even if my body is throbbing at the torment I am putting it through. I can't afford to stop. I refuse to be responsible for darkening my father's blue eyes with disappointment.

My heartbeat is becoming more erratic, my limbs now physically shaking in blatant protest. Sweat is pouring from my body, falling into my eyes and making my vision blur but I still don't stop. I will not stop, I will not show weakness. Every second feels like an eternity as I push my body to its extreme limits. It feels as if I've been running for millennia when the pace of balls flying towards me begins to wane, until they cease completely.

I slow my own pace before depositing the 5kg weight on the floor and jogging over to my father. I roll my shoulders as my body adjusts to the lack of extraneous weight, feeling giddy with the sheer relief that I can finally stop. My father throws a bottle of water in my direction, I nod my head in thanks and glug it down; still unable to form words while I catch my breath. I want nothing more than to just collapse to the floor and 'lick my wounds', but such a display would achieve nothing more than making me look like an undisciplined fool.

"You did well, son. You're ready for this." Hearing those few words makes my chest swell with pride, I can't stop the grin that appears on my face; but I ignore the stinging sensation in my eyes. I will not cry in front of my father, making him suffer the embarrassment of having such a weak son. My father's gaze softens as he looks at me with a proud smirk appearing on his handsome features.

"Do you really think that?" I need to know if my father is being honest, if he really thinks I'm ready or if he's just trying to pamper my ego. The reaping is tomorrow after all. I need to know that I am ready, that I can do this and my father is the only one who can give me that reassurance. He runs his hands through his sandy blonde hair, a quirk that I had inherited as well as every physical feature. He's genuinely thinking now, and all I can hope is that he believes I'm ready for this for without his belief. Well, I know I wouldn't be able to do this.

"Yes, you will show the whole of Panem that Phury men are a force to be reckoned with." His eyes glimmer with pride, for just one second; pleading with me to not prove him wrong before his face returns to his neutral expression. As if he is analysing me for any weakness, a weakness another tribute might be able to find and exploit. I lift my chin and meet his stare dead on.

"I will father." A simple promise on my behalf. To ensure that every man, woman and child know that men who hail from the Phury family are not to be crossed; that we are born to be champions. To obliterate the competition, and be the last man standing in any circumstance. A philosophy I've had drilled into me rigorously since I could understand the basic concept of competition, and what it means to win.

"So you're definitely volunteering? I need you to know, that I will be proud of you no matter what you do. I don't want you to feel obliged to do anything when you're already an accomplished athlete." He gestures at the ornate trophy case in the corner of the room, full to the very brim with trophies I have accumulated over the years: track and field, swimming, and weightlifting. Believing myself to be condemned into a life where the Hunger Games wasn't an option, that maybe I could make my father proud by excelling in every other field worthwhile that the Capitol had to offer.

But it's all lies, maybe he wants to believe what he says so much that he has now begun to believe; but beneath this misguided pride, I know that Clatus Phury craves for his son to carry on his legacy. To be able to boast of how his son dominated the games, and I would've done that already if my mother would've approved for me to become a legal District 2 resident. I don't believe in destiny, but I am sure that this twist of fate has been devised solely so that I can compete and win my father's honest respect. I will not squander this golden opportunity; allow it to slip through my fingers.

"Yes, of course I am. We've worked so hard for this; you have ensured that I am the best. I won't waste all that hard work on cowardice." My father nods approvingly, clapping me on the shoulder. I beam as he offers me a seat next to him. I take it gladly, imagining how it will be when I stand alongside the great Clatus Phury as not only his son but as his equal, a fellow Victor of the Hunger Games. My fantasy distracts me until I feel my father nudge me with his elbow.

"Have you told your mother?" I physically twitch. I hadn't told my mother. Not because of a lack of effort on my part; I'd tried to bring the subject up again and again since the Quell had been announced. But she's always 'too busy' at this Gala or that function, or that opening that I haven't been able to get her attention for more than the two minutes every morning when she warns me to behave because I am her son, and my actions reflect on her. And the Capitol only expects the very best from Sabrina Phury and whomever she is affiliated with.

Combine her hectic schedule with the sordid affairs she maintains while my father commits himself to his duties as a Victor; and it's plain to see how I may not have had the chance to tell her of my plans to enter the Hunger Games. Not that she'd complain; she would want nothing more to have a son as Victor, as well as a husband. Yet another status symbol, another reason that the Capitol would covet the 'idyllic' life of Sabrina Phury. My father must deduce from the awkward silence that mother was not informed of my plans.

"Don't worry, you'll have sponsors. You're trained and your mother will be throwing money at you. Not even that oaf Onyxus will be able to sabotage you. And remember even if he tries, I'll be there keeping an eye on you and him. Now remember, get in with the kids from two; even if they're useless. I need to be able to keep an eye on you and send you things if your mentors are slacking." I nod along; this advice has been given to me a million times: Onyxus Bellington will be my mentor and my father fears that he would compromise my chances at victory just to irk my father. My father has therefore devised a plan to ensure he has as much of a hand in my Hunger Games involvement as Onyxus: A plan I know is pivotal to my survival.

"I know; create a pseudo careers alliance. Looking for people with intelligence or affiliated with Gamemakers, they'll help navigate the arena. Someone to have my back physically, just in case I'm indisposed and try to keep anyone who may have sponsors near me so that I can reap the rewards. And to top it all off, ensure me and my alliance secure the Cornucopia so that the other tributes have to come and try and scavenge supplies."

A straightforward plan, simple and effective. Highlighting my way to Victory without too much effort on my behalf. I need to pull the strings, take away any advantages my fellow tributes may have before they've even realised they may have had them. Then it is as simple as cutting them down one by one. The idea that any child of the Capitol would be able to overpower me is simply laughable. My father nods his head, happy that I can remember the plan he's devised.

"Good, and remember: Don't be too savage, you're a Capitolite. Be refined with your kills, if they think you're acting like a 'District Animal' then the Gamemakers will get rid of you. Keep it clean." I nod my head, not discomforted by the fact I am sitting with my father plotting the deaths of 23 other children. Because the way that I see it, each and every one of them is simply an obstacle between me and my next trophy. The biggest and most coveted trophy of all.

A claxon rings throughout the Phury's personal gymnasium; the high pitched sound pierces my ear drums. My father look unconcerned, we're being summoned by Sabrina Shields herself; and however emasculating it may seem for a Victor and a prospective Victor, the easiest thing to do is to respond. I look down to see my vest stuck to me with sweat, my hair is plastered to my forehead and I don't exactly smell fresh.

"I'll go and see what she wants, grab a quick shower and join us in the lounge." I give my dad a thankful grin before heading for a shower, if my mom would of seen me so dishevelled she would of thrown a fit; we are the Shields' and we are never seen anything less than perfectly put together. Not even by family. I can't recall a single moment I have seen my mother without a full face of makeup, fully accessorised and wearing the latest fashion. Because in the eyes of Sabrina Phury: It is a crime as much as treason or murder to look anything but your best.

As the cold water rains down on me it feels as if I was in agonizing pain, and the droplets of water are a powerful anaesthetic. As the beads of water fall down my trim body, I luxuriate in the feeling of my tightly coiled muscles beginning to unwind. As the water washes away the sweat, my fatigue from a full day of training begins to recede; a subconscious reminder that when dealing with my temperamental mother it is best to have you bits around you.

Stepping out of the shower I pull on a pair of grey trousers and a crisp white shirt. It is a Capitol renowned fact that you never wear anything less than what could be deemed 'smart casual' around my mother. As I walk towards the lounge, I can't help but note how this house is not a home. It's more like a museum with the priceless art work scattered throughout the hallways, just more symbols of status that allows everyone who enters kknow exactly how affluent my mother is. As I near the lounge I hear my mother's voice, nasally and sharp as always.

"What do you mean? You're unable to attend a gala with your 'wife'. We have been personally invited by Cecelia Barrowman, I can't show up alone." My mother is standing, dressed in a spray on black dress that displays every curve that the best surgeons in the Capitol can create and a white blazer with diamond detailing. Specifically tailored to showcase her assets. Power dressing is what she calls it but in my personal opinion, she looks as though she is trying to hold onto the youth that is rapidly deteriorating.

"I have certain duties to attend to this evening, and as of tomorrow I'm officially a mentor. I can't neglect my job." My dad hasn't raised his voice, he isn't pleading with her to understand. Just stating facts but my mother recoils, her face twisting into a disgusted expression and she begins to laugh before slapping my father around the face. The ultimate sign of disrespect, but my dad just continues to stare ahead; knowing that if he retaliated, the consequences could be gruesome. Not even the title of Victor makes you immune to the wrath of Sabrina Phury.

"Oh yes, your precious 'job'. Can't forget about that even though it is me who pays for everything. And you-" My mother swings around to point at me, her scarlet nails glinting sinisterly beneath the chandelier lights. The acid in her voice shocks me, and I flinch as though it were me she slapped in the face. My father's eyes narrow, he begins to stand up but I shake my head. My father is more liable if anything goes wrong, despite his marriage he is still technically a citizen of District 2. Whereas I am a Capitolite by birth. Totally oblivious to the father-son interaction, my mother's tirade continues.

"Volunteering? You do understand how ridiculous I will look if this ends badly for you. I have deliberately let it slip that you've been trained." I bite down; it stings to know that my mother is wholly concerned about her image and status amongst the other socialites and the fact it takes precedence over my life. But I attempt what my dad has been trying to teach me, to clear my face of all emotion. Blank. It is a weakness to show people that their words hurt you, and if anyone can smell that particular weakness it's my mother.

"I have no intention of dying Mother." Cold and ruthless; exactly what I was going for. My mother looks impressed, if only for a nanosecond. My dad nods his head at me, praising my indiscernible expression. Sabrina throws another contemptuous glance at me, her eyes travelling the length of my body: The whole process is strangely intimate and it feels as though spiders have begun to run all across my skin. It may be the most unsettling thing I have ever experienced; having my mother look at me like a piece of meat at a market.

"You'd better not; I won't tolerate you bringing shame upon me and this family. Thankfully you're attractive and with me sponsoring you, it shouldn't be too difficult for you to win. I have to go now, but do not disappoint me Samson." My mother pulls on a pair of black satin gloves, before looking over at my father and curling her lip in disgust. The strange thing is, I have an ominous feeling that even if I survive my mother would find a way to be disappointed in me.

"I swear I won't." I need to reassure my mother, to try and loosen the knot that has been building in my stomach. I know my dad has faith in me, but it would help me if I knew my mother had that confidence in me too. She begins to leave, pulling sunglasses over her violet eyes; as she leaves I feel tension leaving my body. Until she turns to throw one disdainful look back at her family.

"I would wish you good luck, but if you're as good as your father believes you won't need it. And remember to try and dress smartly; you're representing Area One, the most elite segment of the Capitol. As well as being the son of Sabrina and Clatus Phury, I will not tolerate you being seen on live television looking like some ruffian."

I nod my head. I feel like I should feel disheartened that my mother is more concerned about how my appearance would reflect on her; her apparent lack of caring for my welfare as she leaves the house without looking back. Not concerned that this could be the last time I ever see her, however small the chances are that I won't return from the Arena. My dad comes round to throw his arm around my shoulder, a silent sign of support.

"Ignore her son, always works for me." I can't help but laugh, my dad is wholly unconcerned with the fact my mother will most likely be taking a man who isn't her husband to bed. I suppose that he's had even more time than me to build a thick skin against my mother's demeaning remarks and superiority complex. Maybe it will change when I win the games, in her eyes I won't only be a Victor but I'm also of the finest Capitol breeding. Maybe one day she will look at me without her stare being clouded with poignant indifference.

"I do. Well I try to anyway. So any last minute advice before you go as well?" My Dad just grins, punching me in the shoulder; he goes to the mini fridge and throws a beer over to me. Thanks to my reflexes I catch it without it crashing against the floor, before popping the can and taking a sip of the cold drink; the distinctive apple flavour seems surprisingly sour.

"Well apart from, don't chug it back too quickly because it's strong. I'd say the biggest bit of advice I can give you is to expect the unexpected; we might think that these Capitol kids are harmless, but believe me. They've probably got claws and won't be going down without a fight. Your mother for example, she might look like a porcelain doll but we both know that she could decimate a nation if she wanted to."

I can't help but chuckle, I could imagine my mother now; there's no doubt in my opinion that she would win the Hunger Games if it were her forced into the Arena. But that thought sobers me, I might think it will be easy pickings: all these children with their heads seemingly on another planet that consists of obsessive vanity and elitist attitudes may not be as quick to lie down and give up as I originally anticipated. If they're anything like my mother that is.

Me and Dad finish the beers, and then he has to go and deal with 'Victor business', something he says doesn't matter since I'll be spared. Before he goes, he kisses me on the forehead and hands over his dog tags; inscribed with the number that belonged to him when he studied at the District 2 Academy. They're precious to him, a constant reminder of all the hard work he had to do in order to prevail in the games; and he's given them to me. I'm choked up, but dad tells me to keep my chin up before he too leaves. Leaving me alone in this house.

I stuff the dog tags into my pocket; determined to never part with them. They'll be my token in the Games. Now, what would an 18 year old boy do knowing that tomorrow he'd be leaving for the Hunger Games? Most probably throw a party, especially seeing as I am home alone and for once could avoid my mother's wrath. I reach for my mobile phone, ready to crack open some beers and have the boys around. But what would a future Victor do in these circumstances? I throw my empty can away before unbuttoning my shirt, back to the training gym it is.

* * *

><p><strong>Kloi Greyson (17), Area One.<strong>

"…shut up, I look like one of those zombies from that film last night." I keep brushing my dress down and looking in my compact mirror; yes, it seems incredibly vain. But mom has always stressed the importance of looking your very best in front of the cameras, and I suppose it's rubbed off on me. Plus, it is the Reapings and however sure I am that I'm safe; I just want to look as good as possible in case I'm caught in a camera shot.

My dress is a simple green silk wrap around dress, partnered with patent black stilettos and a black cinch belt inlaid with diamonds; something simple but sophisticated. Larissa on the other hand, has no such qualms; dressed haphazardly in an aubergine coloured jumpsuit and diamond covered sneakers. Right now, I feel genuinely sympathetic towards those from the Districts. Today has been filled with enough tension to last a lifetime.

I couldn't imagine how awful it would be to have to do this every year. Plus, it is startling to know that someone just like me or Larissa is currently walking to the Crystal Glade. But instead of walking back home, they'll be forced into the ultimate game of chance: where the rules are clearly stated as being 'kill or be killed'. I'm struck speechless as we enter the Crystal Glade, a place I've always found strangely beautiful with statues of all of Panem's presidents carved from the finest precious stones that District One has to offer, the white marble walkways have been inlaid with sparkling stones of every colour: Rubies, sapphires, emeralds and amethysts as far as the eye can see.

"Wow." Larissa's description, however ineloquent it seems, really sums it up. The Capitol is famed for its stunning architecture, its elaborate furnishings but this is something else. Streamers line the horizon and somehow, a ginormous stage has been erected in the centre of the Glade; blindingly bright lights glaring down on the stage floor. Everyone is gathering around the stage, me and Larissa head to sign in before joining the rest of Area One's population.

As we walk into the designated areas based on gender and age, I'm looking around; sheer amazement at the intricate decorations. Tiny fair lights which glimmer a particular colour every few seconds; holograms showing the finest moments of District One's history in the Hunger Games. I flinch as I see a younger Onyxus Bellington behead a young man with one swing of his sword, his cold eyes showing no remorse and seem to be following me as I move through the crowd. Subconsciously, I quicken my pace; dragging Larissa into the crowds in my attempt to avoid having to witness murder after murder.

Thankfully we've arrived early enough that we can stand around without getting jostled by a boisterous crowd, so I snatch my compact back out. Eyeing the bags beneath my eyes with distaste; I quickly cover them with some concealer that I'd stuffed in my handbag that morning and coat my lips with a smidge of red lipstick. It'll have to do, when I've managed to deal with my 'mini crisis' is when the situation hits me: I'm eligible for being reaped. My stomach performs a somersault.

And then I realise how suffocating the atmosphere is, the classical music blaring from the speakers; trying to calm a bunch of teenagers who could be handed their own death orders within the hour seems redundant, this year the Capitol is blanketed by a sobriety that I would never have deemed possible . I feel Larissa lace her fingers with mine, and although it does nothing to calm my nerves I give her a thankful smile.

I replay what mom said to me yesterday, how the Capitol would ensure that I'd be safe because I am the 'star' of my generation; and for once in my life I am overjoyed that I've been forced into the show business from an early age. It may be detrimental to my private life, but it could definitely play a major factor in protecting my actual life today.

"Miss Greyson." I turn to find a young girl standing behind me, her skin a pale pink with shining blonde hair and surgically affixed angel wings. She looks no older than 10, but since she's standing in the area designated for potential tributes she must be at least 12. I feel my heart squeeze as she quivers before my eyes, it just seems wrong; but I put my 'public smile' on my face. Doing my best to ignore the drastic differences I see in the Capitol today, nervousness and instability replacing the usual fever that settles over the city during 'Games Season'.

"Why hello, little miss. What can I do for you?" My voice sounds far too cheery to be considered natural, but the little girl beams as if I've handed her the stars and the moon. However irksome at times it can be, having people stop you in the street; it seems inconsequential when I get to do this. Putting a smile on little girls' faces in a time like this. From behind her back, she pulls one of my headshots. One from about two years ago with my hair slicked back while I blow a kiss into the camera lens, I cringe as I see me blowing a kiss in the photo. It's so contrived.

"Can you sign this for me? I'm Angel by the way, and if I've got to go into the Hunger Games. I want this to be my token." I just smile while I take the pen she hands me and sign the photo. She takes it and that her bright smile is still firmly in place. So thankful, so innocent and that's when I feel a tear begin to slide down my cheek. I feel even my infallible 'smile' begin to crack and without thinking I pull the little girl into a hug.

"You won't go into the games, Angel. You'll be safe." I don't know why I have this insane urge to comfort this little girl; maybe a subliminal idea that by comforting this girl I'm comforting myself because I know the odds are in my favour. I know my fate won't be decided by the games, I slide a silver bangle from my wrist and give it to the girl, Larissa is just staring at me dumbfounded. Eventually the little girl leaves, running over to show off her new bangle to her friends, pointing over at me which cues all her friends to turn and stare at me too.

"Don't mind if I don't ask you to sign something do you? I haven't got one of your head shots spare." I nudge Larissa with my elbow, chuckling at her jibe. The crowds are beginning to thicken as everyone begins to arrive. She cackles and begins to glare at anyone who looks over at me, at times I could swear that Larissa can read my mind: I don't object to speaking to fans, but right now I just need to focus on myself. I take a deep breath before I begin to wave at those who stare.

"You'd of thought that since they might be sent off to die, they'd have a bit more class." I agree. These people should be less worried about getting their chance to see 'that girl from that film or television show', when they should be more concerned about the uncertainty of their own fates. But I do as my mom always taught me, smiling and waving. Signing things and hmming and ahhhing as people list the reasons as to why they 'just love' me.

Eventually the crowd condenses even more, so that people can't come over and greet me; instead I'm treated to a symphony of people shouting my name and taking candid photographs. I count to ten in my head, ignoring the constant shouts whereas Larissa glares at people. I actually laugh as Larissa begins to commentate as people walked by, commenting on the absurdity of what they are wearing or imitating their flamboyant gait until I feel her squeeze my arm.

"Look who it is Klo, the skanky bitch herself." I turn to see Lianna Deltrix sauntering through the crowd, and I would usually scold my sister for being so rude. But when it comes to this girl, it is all true. I wouldn't say that I hate her, but I definitely dislike her more than anyone else in the Capitol. Posing as my best friend and then leaking secret information to the tabloids; first of all it is tacky, and secondly it does nothing for her other than alienate everyone and make her seem like a crazed attention whore.

"She looks ever so 'glamorous' with those nipple tassels." Larissa snorts at my sarcastic jibe. Usually I'm not prone to being so bitchy, that is Larissa's sole territory, but seriously the girl is walking around wearing nothing but nipple tassels and something that I believe is called a G-string covered in rhinestones. What would possess someone to dress like that? Larissa and I then decide to entertain ourselves by pointing out how stupid Lianna and her posse look, like a promo for 'Whores Gone Wild'.

"Kloi Baby." I feel my shoulders slump, a voice I was actively trying to avoid. I turn, once again the smile that was genuine only moments ago morphs into that of the 'teen starlet'. Once again, most girls would die to be in my position: This would be their 'film scene' fantasy to have Mikael Rodriguez pushing through the crowds to get to them. His pearly white teeth shining in contrast to his ebony skin, with his sharp as glass cheekbones most girls would declare him 'to die for'. I, on the other hand, am supressing an overwhelming urge to sprint in the opposite direction.

People begin to aww as he pulls me into his arms; I just go limp. Cameras begin to flash and I could happily turn completely invisible, and then he does the one thing that he knows annoys the living daylights out of me: Kisses me. Kisses me, in public. Where people are snapping photos of course; and it's not because he can't squash down his desire for me, it's because he wants us to be on the front cover of every magazine tomorrow.

Public displays of affection have always been something that has repulsed me on a certain level, they just seem so tacky and insincere. I pull back from his embrace, wanting nothing more to slap him for his audacity or wipe where his lips had touched mine. He throws a possessive arm around me, ensuring everyone sees that I am his, showing he sees me as nothing more than a trophy. Larissa narrows her eyes at him, and however much I would like to see my sister decimate the perverse rodent, I widen my eyes at her, asking her to not cause a scene.

"Oh Mikael, shouldn't you be standing with the other boys?" I just want him to leave, I was finally managing to ignore the fact we're standing in front of a stage; ignore the fact that two children are going to be sent to their probable deaths. But with his overwhelming presence, I can't guarantee that I might do something completely ludicrous like volunteer just to escape his lustful looks and wondering hands.

"I just wanted to see my beautiful girlfriend, erase any fears she might have about being reaped." He calls himself an actor, yet he is completely incapable of being sincere. Rather than directing his words to me, he is broadcasting them to everyone in the immediate vicinity. He plants another sloppy kiss against my cheek, before strutting back through the crowd to scattered applause. I can wholeheartedly say that the first thing I do when I get home is have a shower.

"Klo, I don't give a shit what you say. You have to dump that idiot; you look like you were going to throw up on him." I look at her, is my revulsion that obvious? Mikael is just one of mom's 'publicity stunts' telling me time and time again that dating my co-star would be great for my image. 'It's what the fans want'. But as I hear people whispering about how 'sweet' Mikael is I don't give a damn what the fans want. I need to get rid of that particular ball and chain.

"As soon as possible, I did think I was about to shower him with that chocolate fudge cake from last night if he didn't take his hands off of me." Larissa just grins and links her arm through mine, continuing her bitchy commentary to distract me from my 'problems of a teenage superstar' which in all honesty pale in comparison to the problem every other person here is facing. The fact they could die, whereas Mikael might annoy me to high heavens but I doubt it will be the cause of my death.

"Oh My God, there he is!" My sister squeals uncharacteristically, pointing over to a clump of boys; I try to catch who she is pointing at. All I can see is someone who is freakishly muscled, with blonde hair and a pristine white suit with diamond lapels. A tad ostentatious but each to one's own, I try to catch a glimpse of his face: If he can make my sister squeal, there must be something special about the boy but if I had to make a snap judgment, the way he is standing there pushing his way through the crowd without even apologising; I would say he is nothing but an arrogant berk.

"Did you know he's going to volunteer? I bet he wins." My sister is blabbering on about this boy who I've now deduced is Simpson or something similar, the boy from the Training Centre. But thinking about small Angel and everyone else here who is completely defenceless in regards to the Hunger Games, I can't help but think that this boy is nothing more than a Neanderthal. A bloodthirsty brute without an ounce of human compassion.

A beast who wants nothing more than to torment children, to slaughter indiscriminately and be praised for it; the sentiment itself is vile and for once in my life I find myself doubting my sister's sanity. How could she find someone who obviously has no morals attractive? How could she be enthralled with someone who, if the rumours are true, wants to place himself in a situation when he has no choice but to try and murder 23 other children?

* * *

><p><strong>Samson Phury (18), Area One.<strong>

Its moments away, the time when I will take to the stage on the first step to becoming Victor of the 175th Annual Hunger Games. I have the feeling that I should be feeling nervous or even excited but I feel completely indifferent. The boys move to get out of my way, as though afraid I might rip them limb from limb; a few I remember from the Training Centre they'd erected near Boardwalk Boulevard. They were useless, and probably glad that I'm stepping forward to volunteer; saving themselves the embarrassment of looking like idiots on National TV.

I've pushed myself through to the front of the crowd, a clear view of the stage in case anyone is psychotic enough to volunteer instead of me. I clasp my dad's dog tags tightly; imagining what he'd say to me now, probably to remain aloof and not give anything away. So that's what I do, stare at the stage waiting for the Reapings to be over with so that I can get out of this ridiculous suit.

I woke up this morning to find an Avox had left a garment bag on my bedroom door, along with a note that read. _Wear this, and remember not to embarrass me –Sabrina Phury._ And however over the top I might find the white tuxedo, I know better than to disobey a direct order from my mother. I grimace as I hear children snivelling behind me, why are they upset? It's blatantly obvious that I'm volunteering. My mother has ensured that everyone is informed that her 'precious' son is going to come home Victor.

I'm pretty sure that people try to talk to me, moaning about how 'unfair' it is that the Districts aren't doing anything 'useful' this year. If I wasn't staring at the stage so intently, willing for proceedings to begin; I would've reminded them that first of all, it is an honour to represent your home in the Hunger Games and secondly, the Districts are responsible for everything in the Capitol and have other uses than providing prime time entertainment.

"Welcome Area One, to the reapings of the 175th Hunger Games. Let the show begin in 5, 4, 3, 2….1" Suddenly there is an explosion onstage, instinctively I fall back into a fighting stance; knocking two boys over who were standing to my left. I glare at the boys who are whinging about 'common assault' as they clamber to their feet and move a respectable distance away from me. Smoke is billowing from onstage and confetti begins to fall into the audience.

I'm shocked, even my habit of trying to remain emotionless can prevent my mouth from popping open as Trixie Gaudington emerges from the smoke wearing what I think might be a showgirl outfit but to me resembles a large white bird that was dipped in a strong adhesive and then thrown into a bucket of random gems. With her gold hair and gold skin, she looks like a walking trophy; a trophy that no one would want to win.

"Hello my wonderful Area One, I am Trixie Gaudington your fabulously amazing Escort for what will be the most memorable Hunger Games ever." There is scattered applause; people are probably still shell-shocked by the unconventional entrance or maybe the Capitol is too immersed in their cowardice to even notice the garish woman parading around.

"Well, maybe a little song will get you all in the mood…" What? Since when did Escorts sing songs? Maybe, since we're in the Capitol and they had to make it that little bit more 'special'. Music begins to resonate throughout the Glade; a big band number and everyone seems to pick up interest until the woman begins to sing. With all the technology the Capitol possesses, one would have thought that they could of auto-tuned Trixie into sounding bearable.

Instead, her voice was untouched by technology: Her nasally, out of tune wails were almost unbearable as she sang about diamonds being a girl's best friend. I can't even think of an analogy to describe what horrors we in Area One had to suffer; maybe to describe the horrific sound as a symphony of cats squealing and someone being violently sick.

The music began to fade out, people were still speechless. I on the other hand began to clap, hoping that applause would appease the obviously psychotic woman who was running around the stage performing high kicks and waving her arms around so wildly and without rhythm that the display of incoordination would probably be recorded as a guideline for those who need to be committed to a mental institute.

A wave of relief had swept the audience as the song came to an end, people began to clap but it was drowned out by a new song. I would cover my ears if I didn't fear that it would rip my blazers seams and secondly, I don't want to look ridiculous. She was joined onstage by a troupe of showgirls who began to can-can. Trixie however stood out like a sore thumb amongst the professional dancers; her legs flailing around without apparent purpose. And then came the grand finale, Trixie ran forwards and dropped into what I believe was meant to resemble the splits.

And then, candy and little trinkets began to rain from above. Is this what the Capitol is trying to do? Make a mockery of their beloved Hunger Games, because they're doing a fine job if that's their intention. Everyone begins to roar and applaud; catching onto my earlier tactic of trying to get her to shut up. Trixie began to bow, blowing kisses and posing for a camera that was set up onstage

"…Wow! Let's see any of the other Escorts top that…Where was I? Oh, yes. I'm glad you had fun, fun, fun watching my performance. If I didn't take on the momentous responsibilities of being a District Escort; braving the savage world, I would have pursued dance and music." I'm completely flabbergasted by this woman's preposterousness. The Hunger Games are a pageant of valour, strength and honour; not something to make a joke of with shoddy theatricality.

"Oh my, we're running a bit late. So let me introduce your amazingly amazing mentors. Hailing from the District of luxury, which has actually inspired my beautiful outfit, winner of the 168th Hunger Games Ribbon Milanos." The blonde beauty walks onstage, her green eyes surveying the audience with a cold indifference; until her eyes flicker to me and her lips curve into a sadistic smile. The audience have definitely livened up now, Ribbon is one of the Capitol's favourite Victors; they hail her with cat calls and thunderous applause. She doesn't acknowledge it whatsoever.

Dad warned me to try and stay on the right side of Ribbon as she is a million times more dangerous than she appears. Judging by the way she stands; shoulders back and arms folded she looks completely at ease. But something about her posture tells me that she isn't someone to cross, her relaxed stance practically screams 'I could kill you without even breaking a nail'.

"Give us a twirl Ribbon, you know you want to." I can't gauge Ribbon's reaction but she turns to look at Trixie with alarming speed; and by the way Trixie's smile slides right from her face. I would chuckle, but a camera pans across the audience at that exact moment and I can't afford to be seen as anything less than infallible. Never mind my mother would throw a fit if I were to be caught guffawing on television. Either way, it's painfully obvious Ribbon refused.

"Well, then it's time to introduce your second mentor. Onyxus Bellington, winner of the 155th Hunger Games." In a total contradiction to Ribbon's reserved entrance; Onyxus explodes onto the stage, arms held above his head. The crowd roar as he hypes them up; I smirk to myself when I catch Ribbon rolling her eyes and inspecting her nails. She seems about as enamored with Onyxus' arrogance as my father.

"Can you believe it? I've got a BIG feeling that someone from this very Area will be the winner of these games. I mean with fabulous mentors like these, how could we lose? So let's do this." What? We haven't been shown the video about the origin of the Games; highlighting the traditions and importance of the event. This is blasphemy. But I contain myself as Trixie walks over to a bowl full of fluorescent pink slips.

"And the lucky lady who'll be representing us is… Kloi Greyson." Silence. The first tribute has been called to their death, but the name seems familiar. I glance through the crowds trying to spot whoever it is when pandemonium reigns. People are screaming 'You can't take Kloi' 'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!' Peacekeepers enter the crowd, throwing children out of the way as they search for this Kloi; people are refusing to move.

Anarchy, this isn't what happens in the Hunger Games. People accept it with a quiet dignity, and if people were so adverse to someone entering the Games they should volunteer. There's no time for such pathetic protests which will yield no results. Eventually the Peacekeepers have forced their way into the fray, but a girl with green skin and blue hair who I recognise is swinging her handbag with surprising dexterity; disabling two Peackeepers before someone stops her by placing a hand on her shoulder, words must've been spoken and the girl who was fighting with a fierce finesse falls to the ground.

The Peacekeepers take hold of a girl, a girl wearing a surprisingly plain dress with blonde hair. As she's escorted onstage people are reaching out, screaming that they love her: Who is this Kloi Greyson? A chant of 'WE LOVE YOU KLOI' begins, building in momentum until it becomes nothing but a wall of sound. As she's brought onstage, she passes me and I catch a glimpse of the girl I will most probably kill and I'm struck speechless. In a word she is beautiful, her creamy skin is flawless and as her green eyes meet mine I feel something tighten in my stomach.

She walks onstage with a surprising grace, a smile fixed onto her face. Her blonde hair shining like a halo under the stage lights; she waves out to the audience, but the movement is mechanical. Rehearsed, it's the expected and courteous thing to do. I understand it exactly; it's the same way I react when I'm forced into an unfavourable situation such as entertaining one of my mother's guests. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach that these people think they know their idol, but they're wrong. And I'm suddenly struck with an insane desire to answer the question: Who is Kloi Greyson? Despite her looking familiar, I can't place her. I know that I haven't seen her in the Training Academy or school.

Even Trixie looks alarmed as she fusses over the young woman. I'm astounded by the startling difference between Trixie's manufactured beauty and the natural radiance of the girl who must die. Peacekeepers are still trying to quieten the crowd while Kloi is biting her lip, trying to remain strong; a feeling I'm also familiar with. It could have been seconds, or even hours that I stared entranced by this beautiful enigma; but eventually the crowd quietens even though the occasional sniff can be heard.

"And now for the boy…" The crowd around me takes a collective breath and then it is my moment, the moment I've been yearning for: My chance to prove myself as the true, deserving son of Clatus Phury. The very moment when the greatest journey of my life will begin, the journey towards my becoming a Victor.

"I volunteer" Silence. I smirk as people turn to stare at me, wide eyed. Astounded that someone from the Capitol would volunteer for such a thing; if only they weren't so blind as to see this as the once in a lifetime opportunity it is. As I move through the crowd, they part like the Red Sea; I walk with my head held high, with every step seemingly deliberate as I ascend the steps onstage. Trixie comes bumbling over, swaying precariously on her high heels.

"And what is your name?" I catch Onyxus' and Ribbon's eyes on me; I pull myself up to my full height and smile to the crowd. A smile I've seen worn by many tributes in the past, a thirst for blood obvious by the way I bare my teeth.

"I am Samson Phury, and I am your future Victor." I know I sound arrogant, I had meant to. But my father said that I needed to make an impact; but my smirk begins to falter when I realise that people are openly glaring at me. I don't know what I did wrong, and then suddenly it begins again. 'KLOI! KLOI! KLOI!' The sound becoming louder than ever before. And then I feel the microphone snatched from my hand as Ribbon waltzes over to the girl they adore.

"Yes! Let's hear it for the real, future Victor of these games, Kloi Greyson." And the crowd scream in agreement, stamping their feet. I feel a lump in my throat; I've embarrassed myself, my father and my mother. The easiest part of the games and I've already begun to fail; all because of some girl with glittering green eyes. I see Onyxus eyeing me, a smug curl to his upper lip. I think I've failed in highlighting myself as one of the fiercest competitors, looking more like a deluded fool. I need to talk to my father as soon as possible.

"And let our tributes shake hands, Kloi Greyson and Samson Phury." I turn to face the girl, whose eyes I have an intense want to see but her eyes are fixed firmly on the floor. Up this close I can see she is about 6', only 3'' shorter than my own impressive height and as she looks down her long lashes brush against her defined cheekbones. We shake hands, her grip isn't too tight but when she turns her eyes onto me and blue meets green: I see that this girl isn't someone who should ever be overlooked as just a teenage sensation. Like the diamonds that litter the stage floor, the girl with the green eyes is multi-faceted.

* * *

><p><em><strong>WHHHHEEEEWWWW! A long one, I'm sorry that the goodbyes weren't included...but flashbacks can work ;) <strong>_

_**Let me know what you think of our first two tributes.**_

_**Leave a review, this was a hard chapter to write and I need to know if you like the formatting for Reapings and the changes for the Capitol (Trixie and her 'stunning' vocals)**_

_**So for now, I'm off… but remember I still need tributes. PM me!**_

_**-Ornella xoxo**_


	6. Capitol Commentary: Cats and Curiosity

_**Okay, rather than another Reaping I'm trying to introduce the sub plot… now, the subplot will appear throughout the story and it's all planned out. I know what will happen but I've struggled with this chapter; because I didn't want to give too much away before the story picks up pace. So if it's awful, don't be afraid to tell me… It's probably the shortest chapter, and unlike the actual tribute/games content. The subplots will exist outside of the normal timeframe until they begin to coincide with the Games. Like a Capitol Commentary of sorts/ Ornella's AU 101.**_

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><p><em><strong>Claudio Fenwynne, Capitol Today Gossip Columnist.<strong>_

I feel like shooting myself in the foot. Actually, I'm pretty sure I've already shot myself in the foot; the proverbial foot of course, but I'm pretty certain it will be as painful as if I actually committed the act. Maybe even more so. Ever since I was a boy, I was always too curious: At first I thought it was a positive attribute all 'curious minds cure cancer' and all the drivel. Since those days I've become a tad more familiar with the age old saying that 'curiosity killed the cat' and right now I am channelling my inner Felix. Seriously, those blooming teachers who spend so long praising and 'nurturing' my curious nature were obviously a few crayons short of a set.

Life is like walking a tight rope, and if like me you have that tendency to stick your nose in where it doesn't belong, you're going to fall. Right now I would liken my balance to that of a new born deer on a frozen lake.I know that I should've stayed home, downed a bottle of Merlot and retired to bed alone with my beloved teacup Poodle Gracie-Lou. But oh no, I'm incapable of doing the right thing, the 'smart' thing. Curiosity is the supposed key to knowledge; I call bullshit, preferring to think of curiosity as a one way street to 'You're Screwed' Avenue.

Right now, the only knowledge floating around my seemingly thick skull is a way to irrationally suppress the basic instinct of self-preservation. I don't need a consultation with Mystic Melanie to know that this particular chapter of my life is more than likely doomed to a tragic ending. Actually, considering where I've found myself: It's very likely that many of the people here will be getting a 'happy ending', if you catch my drift.

To put it mildly, I've have found myself dropped into a cesspit of sexual deviance. Women walking around as naked as the day they were born, no shame whatsoever. And then men sitting around wearing masks that don't help conceal the fact their eyes are trained on the females who I'd describe as being 'barely legal', if I were being liberal with my understanding of the phrase.

You see, I'd heard rumours 'Gentleman Clubs' and I just thought they were gross exaggerations: They aren't. It's like I've fell into some twisted version of a nymphomaniacs Wonderland. Call me prudish, if you must, but I believe that business of a 'private' nature is best seen to behind closed doors to prevent mental trauma on bystanders like myself.

The question as obvious as Ramone Rathbone's homosexuality, even if he is overwhelmingly persistent about being heterosexual, is why on Snow's green Panem am I here? As out of my element as Serpentia Snow herself at the annual Panem Humanitarian Awards. You see some things are warning signs in life, such as wearing red to a bull fight. If you look outside and see it raining cats and dog, you don't wear white chiffon unless you have a secret ambition to be arrested for public exposure or contract hypothermia. My warning sign was much more absurd: A sequence of events that should've had me running in the opposite direction, rather than running towards it like the fool I am.

At first it was weird phone calls, and for me to call them weird: I once had a telephone conversation with a woman who communicated via Morse code. The weird part was that she made the necessary sounds through the archaic dance form of twerking. At first they were cacophonies of sounds, indecipherable and could've been nothing more than childish prank calls. But I knew straight away that there was something more, and with my damned curiosity I was like a Bloodhound on the hunt. Running the recorded calls through every encrypting programme known to Panem, and quite a few that are in their beta stages, I was able to decode a snippet and since then I've been hooked.

If I played the sounds backwards and translated the language to an ancient form of Latin, they were excerpts of conversations. Conversations I'd had, and believed to be private: I should've just buried my head in the sand at that point. Even now that I've ended up in 'Smokey Silas'' Gentleman Club it's not for fear of anything they might have their hands on going public, it's the possibility of answering the questions that have been haunting me. The deciding factor however was a photo, hand delivered by an Avox, with a telegram of a date, time and place. And, mind the pun, the Avox was hardly able to tell me about anything.

It's a photo I had forgotten had ever been taken, from a press release that had been hushed years ago. Everyone, and I mean everyone who'd even heard about the release was basically quarantined and hit with a NDA so watertight that even thinking of it was a metaphorical signing of your death warrant. I never saw the point of it, it was like any other photo, with people standing there and smiling. But with a little research and a few visits to the gossip mill, and I was able to put my finger on why exactly it shouldn't be seen by the public, because if I was able to put the pieces together. Anybody could.

The people depicted are believed to be the people responsible for Serpentia Snow's rise to power. The Snow family have always been a dynasty of sorts, littered throughout the political elite of Panem's history: But Serpentia was always one for doing things in style. She was the youngest President in history, at only 22 she had begun to rule the Capitol with an iron fist hidden by a silk glove. Our President would have you believe that she rose to power based on her own merits and talents. But cynics, and that doesn't include me because treason is not on my 'To-Do List', would say that she had a little help from her 'friends'. The tale of 'Serpentia Snow: From Debutante to President' is a long tale, shrouded in mystery, and basically a taboo subject.

The heads and tails of the whole fandango is that shortly after Serpentia Snow won her place on the 'Throne' these people began to simply disappear under increasingly absurd circumstances. One woman died from a Morphling overdose; which is believable if not for the facts day later one of her colleagues, who coincidently also appeared in the photograph, 'accidentally' beheaded themselves after signing a non-release waiver on a pile of documents. Nobody knows what they were about, and any record of their existence disappeared like smoke in a hurricane.

So over the next month or so, various macabre happenings were haunting the Capitol, or more likely the people in the photograph. To me it was always obvious, once I'd gathered all the facts that hadn't somehow ceased to exist, that this was a death list. Every one of these people is dead. And that is why I'd submitted to the beast that is my curiosity, because the one person who wasn't found dead was in colour while every other figure was shown in black and white.

The woman has been effectively 'missing' and presumed dead for years, and then I get some very obscure piece of evidence that she could be alive: Colour me a glutton for punishment, but I have to follow this path and see what happens. Because I can smell a ground breaking story on the horizon like flatulence in a lift. I just pray to whichever deities that might be listening, that this is one more time when I will be the cat that avoids getting killed by their curiosity.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I despised writing this, but it was necessary. It points out that Snow came into power under enigmatic circumstances and that there is a teeny weeny chance that this mystery woman is out there… Who is she? What does she know? How will Claudio fare on his journey to get the bottom of this? What were these 'private' conversations of out journalist friends? They all have answers…and as they come out, I hope you will think the sub-plot is as intricate and exciting as I do. Maybe even becoming as tense as the actual games… Especially when we meet some of Snow's family: They put the Borgias' to shame ;)<strong>_

_**-Ornella**_

_**P.S: You won't be waiting for a chapter this long again. Although it may be a few days until the next one, which will be a Reaping, as I spent a lot of the last week or so basically plotting everything that might happen. **_


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